


Cry Wolf

by dehautdesert



Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: A+ Parenting, Canonical Character Death, Captivity, Dream World, FUBAR - Freeform, Forced Marriage, Forced love, Ghosts, Heavy Angst, Hope vs. Despair, Horror, Imaginary Friends, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, M/M, Marriage, Mental Disintegration, Mind Rape, Not Canon Compliant, Obsession, Psychological Horror, Psychological Torture, Rape/Non-con Elements, Resistance, Soul Bond, Torture, True Love, Villain Protagonist
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-01
Updated: 2020-09-21
Packaged: 2021-02-28 07:08:05
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 12
Words: 85,007
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22979641
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dehautdesert/pseuds/dehautdesert
Summary: The Second Age has reached its first crisis point. With Celebrimbor his captive, Sauron need only forcibly bind himself to the elf to enter his mind and discover the bearers of the three elven rings, putting everything in place for his total dominion over Middle Earth.The only problem is that Sauron has played this trick before – and in order to return that particular trump card to his hand, he's going to need a divorce.
Relationships: Celebrimbor | Telperinquar/Narvi, Celebrimbor | Telperinquar/Sauron | Mairon, Maeglin | Lómion/Sauron | Mairon
Comments: 106
Kudos: 170





	1. Night Thirty-One

**Author's Note:**

> An important note on what follows before we begin: though tagged for, Narvi will be 'Sir Not Appearing In This Fanfic', as he's dead and therefore exists entirely in Celebrimbor's imagination throughout. (Maeglin and Eol are also dead, but then they're the reason the 'Ghosts' tag is there)
> 
> This was my NaNoWriMo 2019 project, now almost tidied to the point of being fit for fan consumption; though not beta-read, as dehautdesert has no beta reader, and dehautdesert needs no beta reader. (any long-lost beta readers with Important Beta Reader-Identifying Trinkets will be accepted only after we have been on a perilous secret mission to save the world together, ending in my being shot with fifty billion arrows in a three hour long death sequence)
> 
> For the general measure of this fic, I think the 'FUBAR' tag is all you really need to keep in mind. Happy to answer any questions in the comments. 
> 
> *deep breath* Here we go...

*~*~*

"Tell me, Tyelpe – do you know why elves die when they are violated?"

The room was dark.

All around the dais he was placed on Celebrimbor could not see so far as the walls, even though a light shone upon him from above. It was an unnatural darkness the light could not penetrate, and an unnatural light that came from neither flame nor heavenly body.

Celebrimbor breathed in as deeply as he could – his wrists bound high above his head on the slanted table stretching his chest uncomfortably. The coldness had numbed his many wounds. He was not as afraid of what Annatar threatened as he was of causing yet more death and destruction by his weakness, so he said nothing and tried to prepare himself for the worst.

_Valar, though I fall under the Doom of the Noldor and the curse of my grandfather – and though I have been a fool a thousand times over and a traitor – please show me mercy. Let him perform the foul deed he suggests and let my soul be claimed by Mandos’ halls where I will cause and suffer no more damage._

"Neither men nor dwarves do likewise," said the other pensively. "Nor the beasts of the earth. Only elves... and not always with the same progression."

No doubt _he_ knew every detail of that. How many had come before Celebrimbor to a fate such as this in the First Age? How many even before the First Age, with no great name or secret knowledge to lend them worth in the eyes of Morgoth's first lieutenant, were simply used to see how much an elf could take?

"Do you know, Tyelpe?"

His old childhood pet name sounded fouler than ever before in the mouth of the Maia. Elbereth, what would those who had given him it think if they could see him now? If _Narvi_ could see him now...

_Treasure of treasures, please do not think me sullied, even if he uses me against my will..._

" _I_ know, beloved," said the voice in the shadows slowly.

There was a strange sound, like a tiny blade being drawn, but in Celebrimbor’s mind it was the sound of Annatar – of _Sauron’s_ tongue, running along his teeth.

"I know."

*~*~*

The son of Curufin had been Sauron’s captive for a month now, and despite all the standard techniques having been employed upon his body yet he showed no signs of weakening his resolve. Sauron wouldn't have expected to so easily break his dear friend, of course, but he might have hoped the _mental_ trauma the elf had already suffered would ease the way for the brands and barbed leathers to do their work. He was not so fortunate; Celebrimbor was determined to retain the last shred of honour he had left.

And yet, Sauron was determined to have the name or names of whoever had those last three rings. So the battle had commenced.

From the beginning it was always going to have been… complicated. As complicated as persuasion itself. One had to cause the most amount of pain with the least amount of damage, refrain from going so far that pain stopped having any meaning to the subject, yet also skirt the line between driving out the hope of rescue and driving out the hope that the agony might cease. One also had to decide how to proceed when one was quite certain they were dealing with an individual who would simply never give what was required of them.

It was only to be expected, he supposed. The uncle he had never gotten very far with, true; all those years ago. Any member of the house of Feanor might have been likewise – even Feanor's _wife_. Even these measly few weeks had shown him that torture alone wasn’t going to cut it; certainly not physically, and the time had come wherein he could admit it: not in any other way either.

That left him with two options to break Celebrimbor. Trick him into thinking capitulation would be better than the alternative, or…

Employ the alternative. That way promised the now all too well-known consequences that even now, with all that was at stake, made him hesitate in just considering it. There were a great many factors in that method that he had to balance, especially given that this time it would be Celebrimbor. On the one hand someone known to him, someone with no secrets from him but the one that would be the purpose of the act – on the other, someone known to him. Someone he had already allowed too many liberties, even if his proper place had certainly been shown him now. This course he considered could upset that balance. He remembered the strong arms encircling his shoulders from behind and the well-worn chuckle breathed into the back of his neck.

As he pondered he sat at the elf's side and stroked the tips of his fingers through the dark hair around the ear, carefully avoiding the laceration on the face. Celebrimbor flinched away from his touch. This annoyed him for some reason, and at length he came to the decision that he may as well broach the subject with the object of his vexation.

"Did you ever think of binding yourself to me, of your own free will?"

He made the words sound casual enough.

Celebrimbor hissed. "You know I loved another."

"Well, you wouldn't have been the first elf to remarry now, would you?" The elf flinched again. "Oh. I'm sorry – does that bring back bad memories, my friend?"

"My great-grandfather wanted more children," Celebrimbor said darkly. "I would have no children with _you_ even if one of us were female."

Sauron withdrew his hand. "It would not be impossible," he warned. He relished the look of sudden alarm on Celebrimbor's face and chuckled. "Though I suppose if children were that important to you, you would not have wed yourself to a dwarf."

He paused.

"If you can call yourselves 'wed'." He stood up and began to slowly circle his prey. "I wonder..."

"Shut your mouth, you cretin," Celebrimbor spat. "I joined my body to Narvi's and he pronounced me his One. That is as valid a marriage as any between elf and elf or dwarf and dwarf – you cannot make me doubt in _that_."

"Is it?" asked Sauron.

He leaned in close, smiling when Celebrimbor turned his head away.

"Have you thought about my question, Tyelpe?"

"Your question of who has the rings? I gave them to your old master – I pray you go seek them there with him directly."

No doubt Celebrimbor had spent a long time thinking that one up; Sauron could barely stop himself from rolling his eyes. "No, my friend," he said soothingly. "Of why elves die when they are violated – when no other race upon Arda does so."

He saw a flicker of a different fear in the elf's eyes before he steeled himself, yet to that he had no comeback.

"You haven't?" Sauron surmised, voice light. "Shall I tell you then?"

"What would it have to do with Narvi and I?" Celebrimbor spat. "We gave ourselves to each other of our own free will!"

Sauron snorted and drew back. "Freely, yes – but given 'to' one another? That I wonder about, whatever you had hoped your _will_ to have enacted. When an elf is bound to another elf a bond of more than love and loyalty is formed between them, Tyelpe. A tangible bond, a link from soul to soul that can be seen and felt by those with the right sensitivity, comes into being. A bond so strong only a Vala can break it, and even then only with the consent of at least one party..."

A pause. He dearly hoped Celebrimbor hadn't heard the resentment in his voice.

"You see what I am saying, don't you? You've looked at your fellow elves before and known, somehow, in your heart, that they were bound to another, haven't you? Hasn't every elf?"

At last Celebrimbor seemed to actually turn his mind to what Sauron asked him, but if he had within him the ability to extrapolate from Sauron's hints the answer to his question, it was too dulled by the agony of his earlier torments and his guilt to be of use to him in that moment. Still, Sauron was not deterred.

"It is a thing with presence in the world," he said. "Though it cannot be seen with the eye."

"Why are you telling me these things?" Celebrimbor asked angrily.

"Don't disappoint me, dearest," Sauron replied with a sigh. "I asked the question only moments ago. Surely you can draw the connection together in your mind."

The elf's brow furrowed. "Why violation is fatal to my people? That has something to do with the physical nature of the marriage bond?"

Clapping slowly, Sauron turned back around to face him.

"Well, you aren't yet an entirely lost cause. The potential for that bond to form exists inside of every elf – forged through the union of the bodies, inevitably, and nigh on irrevocably."

He grinned, though that was mostly for show.

"Can you imagine what a horror it would be if an elf did _not_ die when he or she was forced against their will? To have that inescapable link; the potential sharing of emotions, of dreams, of their very souls... with their rapist?"

Sauron let that thought hang in the air for a while, but after a pause he turned away again and wondered aloud.

"Was it the Creator's intention when he made your people, do you think? That they should die if anybody dare defile the sanctity of the bond he had made to be a gift? Or is it more likely he never foresaw the existence of beings willing to do such _terrible_ things, and this is but how his design responds to that which they were never created to endure? He made Men so very differently, after all – perhaps seeing his error. What do you think?"

Celebrimbor could not think – Sauron could see that well enough without any physical link between their minds. Though seldom, the elf would have seen others of his kind succumb to the call after defilement. Most did not survive long after the act itself but some lingered for days or weeks; once long enough that – on the advice of 'Annatar' – there had been time to carry the victim to the Havens in the hopes that crossing the sea might hold back death, though there was no way for them to know if such a thing had proven effective. It mattered little to Sauron.

"Even if that bond is formed with a husband or wife already the attempt to force another is invariably fatal," he mused. "No one, no power in this world, can force a second bond upon an elf against their will."

The eyes before him reflected the flame that lit the room, and perhaps those of their grandsire, back at Sauron.

"May it ever be so," Celebrimbor hissed. "For I will have none but Narvi, even until the end of the world."

Sauron remembered Narvi as he'd known him then, though he would rather not have, because he had been an unlovely specimen even as dwarves went – and ever a thorn in Annatar's side before his death – if a _small_ thorn. Celebrimbor's regard for him was still baffling.

"Would that that _were_ so," he countered smoothly, "or would that it might have been for your sake. I said this was the way of elves – not dwarves."

Celebrimbor twitched. So did Sauron's lip.

"An elf creates this marriage bond with another elf," he continued. "A man does not do so with a woman nor a dwarf with a dam. The Creator made both elves and men, and it appears that men do have a latch of some sort in their souls an elf might make a link to, but a dwarf? My friend... did you ever share a dream with Narvi?"

Without missing a beat, Celebrimbor returned, "Not all elves share dreams or thoughts or portents with their spouses!"

"Not all elves marry for true love. Some do so solely for children, or in moments of weakness. It was not so for you and your dwarf, I think."

There was a silence. Sauron waited long moments for realisation to dawn on his captive's face before deciding it was all too likely such a thing would not come without prompting – the elf's head still so full of weariness, and grief, and misery, and simple pain (perhaps he would remove those screws sooner than planned...) that even this obvious conclusion was beyond him.

"You speak nothing but treachery," Celebrimbor decided on after a while, weak in voice but strong in sentiment and Sauron sighed.

"You cannot proclaim my words false merely because you do not like their implication, Tyelpe. My former mentor, the one I had before your ‘Moringotto’" _Void take the both of them_ , " – when he made his attempt at crafting life, didn't know the form the Children of Illuvatar would take. He didn't think to plan for Durin's lot to be receptive to this link with elves. Who would ever have thought an elf and dwarf would marry anyway!?"

He paused to laugh, because only one as set apart from his own people as Celebrimbor could possibly have entertained such an idea, and it was still amusing in its absurdity.

"Shut up," Celebrimbor told him – in vain.

"There is no marriage bond between yourself and Narvi. As regards the physical there is therefore no marriage."

"Shut up!" Celebrimbor repeated, more viciously. "Bleed and burn me if you will, _Gorthaur_ , and I will take it – but I will not stand to hear you mock my beloved or our union. That is one thing you will never make me doubt, and I swear upon the stars you will regret trying it!"

"Why, what will you do?" asked Sauron with a snort, "Proclaim your love for Narvi over and over until you bore me to death? Though I'll admit, that is probably more likely to succeed than anything else you've tried."

The elf hissed through his teeth at him like an animal, pulling his mangled wrists against their bonds and ripping further into them. Sauron sighed.

"Oh, my friend – you mustn't hurt yourself. To think what might happen to your lovely hands if you pulled too hard... what a loss to the world that would be."

There was sincerity buried beneath his mockery. He thought of the rings and their beauty with a marked wistfulness, and for a moment, he remembered the hands that had made them on his body with something like that same feeling. And with something that turned his stomach.

He sneered. "What would dear Narvi say to see those instruments so ruined?"

"Stop it!" Celebrimbor demanded. "You defile his name with the pit of lies you call a mouth."

"His name will live on despite it, I think," said Sauron. "More so than can be said for the rest of him – did you feel the pull to Mandos, when he breathed his last? Or should I say: did you feel the pull to follow him, as married elves do?"

Celebrimbor shook his head, but not in answer. "You will not deceive me anymore," he said instead. "Never again, you monster. No matter what you do to me."

"I am not the one who is deceiving you this time, my friend – only the mindless self-assuredness of elves. You and Narvi may have married according to custom, but the physical bond – "

"Be silent!"

"The bond that can be felt by other elves – "

"Be _silent_!"

Victory in one thing at least was within Sauron's grasp; Celebrimbor would not have been so adamant had he not touched a nerve.

"The bond that protects an elf from any power forcing a second upon them – "

"The marriage bond cannot be forced, first or second!" Celebrimbor argued at once. "You yourself admitted it, and all know it to be true!"

"Second, no – as I have said already, it would be as trying to push a key into a lock already with a key inside, but first?" Sauron stared pointedly into his eyes. "No elf or man or orc – and certainly no dwarf could do such a thing to an elf. But Tyelpe, I am none of these things, or had you forgotten?"

Finally, some kind of pause came to the blaze within his captive, though it was a brief one.

He shook his head.

"No. No you are a liar in this as well – you do not have that power, you _cannot_!"

"Why not?" Sauron asked. "Because you've not heard before that it could be done? Do you think I'd tie myself to a miserable elf at the drop of a hat, unless I had no choice in the matter? And what other of my kind but me would do such a thing against an elf's will?" He snorted, "A balrog, perhaps, but they don't have the control to present themselves in a form that any elf could survive a union with."

"I don't believe you."

That tune was getting tiresome.

"Not yet. I suppose I cannot blame you for a little scepticism. But you're still not understanding what I'm trying to tell you. I am of the _Maiar_ , son of Curufin, I have a power unfathomable to elves. To give me access to your mind through the marriage bond would not only be to reveal your heart and dreams but I would have control enough to see your thoughts, your memories – and to do with them as I pleased."

Celebrimbor shook his head, but the old tune had faltered.

"To shape the notions of your desires such as to go beyond mere puppeteering of your body; flip the coin from hate to love and make the unwilling willing; silence the call of Mandos' halls to your spirit and – oh yes,"

He smiled

"To learn where those three remaining rings are kept."

There was a silence. For a moment the horror of that thought had stoppered any comeback from the elf, and yet he was not one to cower at words alone – even those as grotesque as Sauron's suggestion must have seemed to him.

Still, all he could manage was –

"You couldn't. You couldn't _possibly_ do such a thing, Eru Illuvatar would never leave his children open to such monstrosity – "

"Do you wish to test the premise?" Sauron asked with lightness, and with irritation. "Because I warn you now, beloved, very soon the only thing that will stop me from taking this course will be to hear the names of the ring-bearers come forth from your lips. Otherwise, I will have to make your mind a part of mine and then not only will your secrets be mine, assuredly as tides turn, but you will go on to do whatever I wish of you – whether it be to put your fellow elves to the sword; your allies, their children, your own _family._.. or merely to sit across a table from me and laugh at my observances as you once did. What's more, no unseen strings of mine would pull your lips into a smile but you would do so of your own accord, for I will make you cherish every moment of our union as you never did whatever bond you held with poor, _dear_ Narvi."

Celebrimbor shook his head still.

"It is not true," he repeated. "You couldn't do it. You don't have that power."

"Believe as you wish," replied Sauron.

He hesitated then, a feeling coming over him like a memory of something he'd felt before when looking at this elf, lying prone before him. Unbloodied – he didn't relish the sight of Celebrimbor's wounds. Unvexed. He drew closer again in the long pause, a hand reaching up to touch an older, closed cut on his forehead. Perhaps...

"It isn't how I'd want this to go, you know. It could be so much easier than that."

"Eru willing, Annatar, I will never make your ambitions easy for you."

The words were choked out with one of the elf's last reserves, Sauron could tell that as much from the accidental use of that name as from the tone and look of him as he spoke them. But he remained defiant.

_I should not have entertained the notion of hoping for otherwise._

"Well. It's not something I'd jump right into even at this stage," Sauron muttered. "But..."

He came in closer, craning his neck over Celebrimbor's to whisper in his ear. His left hand trailed the sharp tips of a gauntlet's fingers down the elf's side slowly, slowly as sweet honey until they reached his hip as he spoke, when he grabbed down firmly on the flesh and moved his hand around.

"... I will have those names one way or the other, Tyelpe. After all, if I had to marry an elf, any elf in Arda, I'd want it to be you."

Celebrimbor shut his eyes as though they would block the words out of his head and Sauron pressed the mouth of his faceplate to his jaw next to the ear, lips kissing the inside of the metal mask against him. Then he stepped back.

"I suppose you should have some time to think it over. Very well. Do not hesitate to call for me if you wish to, and I will hasten to your side."

Until that time Sauron did not think to leave the elf in quiet contemplation he might recover whatever blows had struck true upon his strength of will. Further physical torments would have been counter-productive at this stage, and torture by means of magic would have required his supervision, but there was one other thing available for him to keep Celebrimbor's mind on topic.

A simple swab within a glass bottle whose contents showed a glint of the lamplight shivering on their surface and Sauron sidled back to Celebrimbor. It gave the elf time to hiss,

"Go to the void and be damned there, Deceiver."

"Shh, shh, shh."

He dabbed the potion against Celebrimbor's wounds, the criss-cross on his chest, his sides, the cuts on his face and over his straining wrists.

"There, there, my dear. Dream of Eregion and of Narvi 'til I return. They're both nothing more than dreams now. No one is coming to take you away from this place, I promise you that. From here on in, it will be just the two of us."

With a chuckle, he swept from the room, lingering outside until he heard the whimpering begin.

*~*~*

It was not true.

Eru Illuvatar wouldn't allow such a thing to be true. For one of his children to have to marry a creature of the Shadow, for their minds to be corrupted towards evil in an instant, for such a bond to be thought of as more valid than a bond made freely between an elf and a dwarf...

It was not true. He'd been deceived before by this monster; he would not let himself be deceived a second time. He swore solemnly to himself then and there that he would never reveal the secret of the Three to Sauron. Never.

If the foul creature tried to force himself on him, he would die. Just as if it happened to any other elf his soul would leave his defiled body and be released to Mandos, and then...

And then...

And then the curse his family had brought across the sea would finally be over, he supposed. It was probably a fitting end for someone who'd caused the misery he had; defiance the very least he could do to redeem his idiocy.

The white light of the lamps shuddered suddenly, like ripples on water. The chamber seemed silent now, the echoes of Sauron's lies dissipating into nothing, but far, far away it seemed he could hear a thumping that sounded like the beat of drums, and he twisted as best he could within his bonds, keeping his eyes shut tight.

His head hurt. He didn't know what Sauron had done just before he left, what he had dabbed over his wounds, forced into his blood, but it had not been medicine. The lights were getting stronger, but the darkness wasn't receding any for it. Celebrimbor tried to struggle against the bonds again, unable to think of anything else to do, but the pressure behind his eyes only increased and the wounds started to burn again.

_Poison,_ he thought. _The monster poisoned me again_.

He knew it was too much to hope the poison would be fatal, so all he could do was lie there and tell himself that the effects would stop, and he had to hold out until they did, for what other choice did he have? Call Sauron back and hope to outsmart him with words, persuade him to drop his guard and make his escape from there?

Curufin had been the wordsmith in their family, not him. It was no wonder he'd been duped by Sauron when his own father had fooled him so many times before he'd finally cut ties with him.

It had been so long since he had seen his father...

He shut his eyes against the piercing lights. The idea that he might see him again in Mandos was not a comforting one. If he had thought he might again see Narvi –

Ah, but would Narvi ever forgive him for what he'd done, he wondered? There was a stinging in his heart as well as on his skin suddenly, but he didn't think it was the fault of the poison. He tried to bring the memory of Narvi's face to mind as he had been in the prime of life; sable-haired and black-bearded with the runes inked down the left side of his face that had proclaimed him wedded to his craft – _no dwarf, no dam, but the hammer_ ; a declaration of his youth for Celebrimbor to tease him over, over and over, Narvi's dark eyes rolling at another of the elf's bad jokes and how even after their marriage there had been more than a few times the stone-faced dwarf had picked the chattering elf up over his shoulder, dumped him outside his workshop and locked the door behind him for some peace and quiet.

Celebrimbor had had forever then, to work his craft, while Narvi had only had so long before silver hairs had begun to creep into his locks.

Strangely, it was the older Narvi his mind conjured now, the dwarf slamming down a mug of ale, eyes narrowed like a hawk's upon him.

_"What's this about your kind dying when their wife or husband dies, Lord Elf? You tell me you'll kick the bucket as soon as I keel over and I swear to Mahal I just might do you in first to save myself the embarrassment!"_

Those narrowed eyes and flippant tones hadn't quite hid the worry, even from one as dense as he was.

_"Pfft. I can't die, Dwarf. There's too much to do, and see and make – and there'll be more time to do it once you're out of the way."_

_"Oh, is that how it is, Lord Elf!? I take it you only wanted me for my good looks then?"_

_"Mm, they were hard to resist."_

There had never been any serious discussion of that question. Narvi had been too perceptive not to see the truth in the jest – that Celebrimbor would find comfort in his craft when the person he loved above all others was gone and that was something he of all people was bound to understand.

He could hardly say he'd been prepared for when the day had come though. Dwarves weren't like Men, who weakened slowly, fading day by day, year by year, until an illness they might have had the strength to fight the previous decade or mere lack of strength alone carried them away. Dwarves were strong as iron right up until the moment their bodies suddenly failed them, usually at the completion of their last work. Then there were maybe a few days abed before their soul travelled to the halls of their Maker.

Celebrimbor had barely made it to Narvi's side in time to say goodbye. What a stir some of those stuffier dwarves had made of it when he'd been the only one present at moment of death. Of course, the stuffier ones had always hated their friendship.

That wasn't to say his fellow elves had all been approving. Indeed, their barely-veiled condescension – the _'oh, Lord Celebrimbor and his dwarves... but then, you'd expect a grandson of Feanor to have a few eccentricities_ ', like he'd made friends with an unusually-shaped rock he'd found lying on the ground – those were far less amusing to him than dwarven harrumphing.

" _Bunch of ninnies_ ," Narvi would have said of all of them. Celebrimbor had implied they were as much right to their faces with a shrug and a smirk, and Narvi would have been proud of how well he'd carried on after he'd been gone, he liked to think.

He used to like to think. Before Annatar.

Maybe if he had wept and wailed against the walls as he'd wanted to when it had happened, when it had really hit him that it had happened, maybe he would have been focused enough on his grief to ignore the honeyed whispers that he'd sought to escape from that grief within.

The lights came through his closed eyelids and sought to burn his eyes, sending the tears he'd never cried for Narvi streaming. He tried to turn his head away, but that brought him no relief either – only nausea. If Narvi could see him now, he thought, pride would probably be the furthest thing from his mind.

"Forgive me, beloved," he whimpered. "Forgive me. Forgive me."

_"Stupid elf,"_ he imagined Narvi answering.

_Yes. Yes, I am a stupid elf. The stupidest elf who ever lived._

"Forgive me."

_"Well, it's no use lying there, rolling around and moaning for forgiveness, is it? It's a right mess you've gotten yourself into. What are you going to do about it?"_

What was he going to do about it? He was in the depths of Sauron's stronghold, beyond all hope of escape – or rescue, even if there was anyone out there who hadn't washed their hands of him for his idiocy.

But then even as he thought that he knew that there would be those too kind-hearted to ever do so, and he felt the worse for it. The pain in his head felt the worse for it. He could barely breathe.

"I don't know," he whispered, choking through a throat that suddenly stung like it was full of needles. "Forgive me, my love, I don't know."

_" ‘Oh, I don't know’,"_ his Narvi mocked. " _Now think. There's a snowflake's chance in Mount Doom you're not going to die in here, and you know it_ – "

Another pained groan left his lips as new pain suddenly centred in his stomach.

" _Stop blubbering! If I could go laughing all the way to the Maker I'd bloody well hope you'd at least not cry like a little girl when it was your turn. Were we married, or were we married?"_

There was the briefest moment of indecision. Sauron's words... he knew the viper was hardly called 'Deceiver' for nothing, but they had made so much sense...

Yet he knew what Narvi would expect him to say. Narvi meant too much to him for him to do otherwise.

"We were married," he gasped. "We were – we are married. We are married."

" _Then_ he _won't be doing any marrying of you, will he? All you've got to do is remember that and you'll hold on. And how could you forget me? – even if you certainly seemed to every time it came time to return my tongs. How many times did I make you your own bloody pair?"_

Celebrimbor managed a small, brief smile through his agony.

_"And while we're arguing like old times, stop imagining me to be such a bloody bastard! Mocking you for crying while the Enemy tortures you in this hellhole... for such a skilled artist you have a lousy imagination sometimes!"_

That one almost made him giggle.

_"And stop laughing! I'm not funny!"_

So he'd always said, and always making Celebrimbor laugh twice as hard. The real Narvi would have been more serious if he'd been here, of course; he'd lightened up at the end of the day when the ale was flowing and was stern and serious in the workshop... nine out of ten times, at least.

In all honesty, Celebrimbor didn't know whether to thank the Valar that he _wasn't_ here.

... or to curse them for it.

*~*~*~*

The elf writhed and mumbled to himself. Not that much of a different reaction to the usual. Less screaming and begging than most, which was only to be expected.

Sauron stopped watching after a while and turned his attention to the huge map that adorned the wall of his private chamber, running a finger across the wastelands, mountains, rivers to...

The forest.

_That_ forest.

If Celebrimbor didn't believe him, or refused to give in even in believing him, then that would be where Sauron had to go.

If he was honest – with himself, at any rate – he needed to go there anyway to take stock of the situation. Even if Celebrimbor had never come here he would have had to do this eventually – things could not be allowed to continue as they had been, to potentially get worse than what they'd already become.

He sighed though. He did not want to go to that forest.

A piercing scream had him turn his head back to the little window to Celebrimbor's torment; mark the progression of that particular potion in his lover's blood. Quicker than he would have expected. This elf would burn it out fast, within a single night, perhaps. What else should he have expected from one whose fire was so bright?

But he was letting himself get distracted. A solid raiment that could carry his consciousness outside his stronghold in order to parley without risking notice from his enemies wasn't exactly something he could throw together at the last moment. Not only did it need to be imbued with a certain amount of strength in order to carry out its purpose, but it would hardly have done for someone who professed themselves a craftsman to create something that looked rough and shabby.

A touch of silver to the molten gold to lessen its gaudiness before he used it to gild the raiment's hair. Ideally he would have had real blond hair but hardly any of the thralls in Barad-Dur were so blessed and even those that were could not pretend to any great quality in their locks. So the brown hair of a captive elf had to be properly gilded to use upon the temporary body's scalp.

Sauron looked into the cauldron and sighed again. Too bright – a shade more silver needed. That person had always hated gaudy things.

_You're being foolish_ , he told himself. _He will probably not even see the raiment._

_Even so..._

One of his servants was approaching. One of the Elders, dark beings neither orc nor man who had been Melkor’s in the previous age. One of the few who was left. Sauron didn't bother to look up from the work but he had the doors unlock and open with an idle thought. The creature swept into the room and dropped to one knee behind him.

"It is prepared, Master," it announced.

There was another, lower scream from Celebrimbor's chamber that trailed off into angry sobbing, but Sauron didn't let himself get too distracted. He began to measure out strips of silver on a set of scales.

"Good," he muttered. "And your steed is ready to fly at a moment's notice, I hope?"

"As soon as you command it."

"That will be shortly. A few finishing touches remain." The silver melted with a single such touch.

The elder lingered. Sauron glanced back at it and saw its head turned in the direction of the window into the room that held Celebrimbor; sensed something like doubt beneath the shadows of its cloak. _Doubt?_ he wondered. _Interesting..._

"You have some concern about my princely friend, thrall?"

Inquiries into possible doubts his servants might have about him were generally not answered with carefree cheerfulness. Of course nothing presented to an elder was met with lack of care or anything like 'cheerfulnes', but at length the thrall replied.

"I do not think he will believe what you say about the marriage bond, master."

"Hmm." Sauron paused, still for a moment, and then moved again to add the silver to the gold. "I fear you may be right there. We'll still have to do our best to make him believe it, but if our clock runs out and he still thinks to call our bluff then I'm afraid we'll have to show him that those cards really are in our hands."

"My lord?"

"Though that will necessitate the re-acquiring of those cards," Sauron muttered.

"My lord? What do you mean?"

_What does the fool mean by asking what I mean?_ Sauron wondered. He had only to touch lightly on the elder's mind to figure it out, and he turned around fully in surprise.

"What?" he asked it. "Did you actually think I was _lying_ in what I said to him about the marriage bond?"

"My lord?" Taken aback, his servant struggled for words for a moment before, "Is such a thing... you mean, you really could – ?"

"Force myself on him to take complete control of his mind? Of course. What would be the point in coming up with such an outrageous lie?"

The elder's hidden eyes darted quickly to the window and back again, as if to assure himself that they were talking about the same thing.

"But – to so easily and so irrevocably overcome the will of your enemy – when _that entity_ favoured their design so heavily over that of all others... how can you be sure that this is possible?!"

Sauron laughed, stirring the silver into the gold.

Not the most elegant solution.

It _would_ tarnish.

But for a few, short journeys into the woods...

"Because I've done it before," he explained. "And therein lies the problem."

He sighed.

"A second bond can't be forced even by one of the Ainur. In order to take a new beloved, I must first find a way to part ways with my current spouse."

*~*~*~*


	2. Night Thirty-Three

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Tonight on 'Cry Wolf': our favourite Dark Lord drops by his estranged husband's place to test the waters, managing to mostly avoid his in-laws, but not the anthropomorphic stuffed rabbit hanging around the literal mind-palace.
> 
> Many thanks to all who left kudos. :)

It was twilight.

The light that filtered down through the tops of the trees was blue, the branches black against it. Sauron tested the senses of the raiment he used with a deep breath, trying to inhale the scent of the forest, but the effect was dim. The raiment had been constructed with more haste than was ideal, and riding the fell beast above the clouds for so many miles west had made it cold.

Presently the elder thing turned to him.

“Shall I wait here for you, my master?”

Sauron was silent for a moment, listening to the stillness of the trees. The forest knew he was there, he could feel it, and yet he was fairly confident his presence would not be reported to his enemies. _This_ forest did not answer to the scion of Finwe, nor the dregs of Doriath.

That said, reports would be made. A cool air blew.

“No, I shall need you when I am within. There are other souls whose movements I would keep track of during this meeting.”

“My lord.” His servant bowed; the beast took off to wait to be recalled.

With the elder following two steps behind him he strode into the deeper parts of the wood. They had landed in the nearest clearing to their destination – for there was a single location, fixed around a specific point, that was the dwelling place of his spouse. The point was movable, or else it would have been lost beneath the sea long ago, but Sauron always knew where in Middle Earth it was. As long as the bond remained, he couldn’t not.

An eerie feeling of discontent ran through him. He hadn’t wanted this. Melkor had known that very well, and that had made the deed all the sweeter for him. A bird cried far away.

He hadn’t wanted this. If he had only been more prescient at the time of Melkor’s downfall…

_Well, it isn’t as though Melian ever said anything about what it would be like_ , he thought bitterly.

Something stirred then. Sauron paused and looked up.

_Magpie._ Its white breast seemed to glow in the dimming light. No ordinary bird would have been so readily seen at this point, so it was undoubtedly under _his_ influence, and this was unnerving, because Sauron wouldn’t have thought he’d have so much power over things in the physical world. Was _he_ growing stronger too? Just from proximity?

“He found me fast,” he muttered.

“Shall I kill it, master?”

“If it pleases you. But it will make no difference.”

From the elder a shadowed dart flew forth and struck the bird through the chest, pinning it to the trunk of the tree. Sauron continued walking.

“I expected him to be aware of my approach,” he said. “Though not all at once. We must travel deeper into the forest.”

The elder was not concerned with retrieving his missile, and he followed again, two steps behind.

“Is there a spell, master?”

“A spell?” asked Sauron. “Upon the elf I married? Nothing more than what I’ve said already, the chains of my soul within theirs. The bird did not belong to them, you know. There is another that keeps them company.”

“How could one elf affect your mastery of another though, my lord?”

Sauron laughed. “He doesn’t have that power.”

“Then… how can the elf refuse your calls, my lord?”

“Ah. You wonder why, if marriage gives a Maia complete mastery of an elf, could I not simply order my ‘beloved’ across the sea, where the merciful Valar would break my mockery of that sacred bond and leave me free to take Curufin’s son?”

“Would they interfere, master?”

Another, rueful laugh. “Not for that. I’m sure they’d have a good chat about it first; discussion that would seem ten times as long as it actually was, but in the end they would sever the bond and free me. At this point, I doubt they’d even try to peer into my mind through that of my spouse. Too cruel to use their misfortune for such gain. Too impure.”

Somewhere, far, far in the back of Sauron’s mind there was still a place that stung under the disappointed gaze of Aule, chastising him for ‘impure’ methods of construction. Why should he have acted the ur-authority in creation when he himself had been so heavily chastised for that debacle with the dwarves?

Dwarves. Sauron thought of classless, cackling Narvi once again and deep in the heart of Barad-Dur he fingers of his true body tightened on the sides of the slab he lay on. In the forest, his avatar stopped and shivered. The elder made no mention of it.

“… no. The truth is that that elf has already been separated from their body, and for all I am a necromancer, yet my control over them has become limited.”

He left it there and didn’t explain why this was, because for all the elder was his loyal servant, there was no need to put such information in the open air.

This forest did not belong to his enemies. But neither did it belong to him. Who could say what might have heard him within the bars of tall tree-trunks?

Master and servant walked on as the light faded. Neither needed it to travel, even with the stars obscured, and as the far-off calls of sparrows became the far-off calls of owls and the wolves began to sing the path turned into a steep descent between two taller hills, and then further down, down into the thicker part of the forest.

At its lowest point the trees were tallest, branches stretching up to shoulder those on higher ground, and it was not at all to Sauron’s surprise that he found what he was looking for within the roots of the very tallest tree in the forest. A small stream rushing past fed the giant nest of roots, within which glinted a faint shimmer of metal.

Sauron took a deep breath.

“Well. Here I am.”

A sharp wind greeted their approach, a howl that turned into a scream of rage, and a barrier – like a film of ice-cold water in the air struck Sauron’s face before he released his own power and the barrier was shunted back. For an instant, there was an impression of a face and outline of a body in the wind.

“My lord!” exclaimed the elder.

“Not to worry,” Sauron told it, amusedly. “It’s only my dear ‘father-in-law’. He doesn’t like me very much, believe it or not.” Then, with less amusement, “And nothing in the world could induce him to leave his child.”

“Another unhoused spirit,” hissed his servant. “Can he make trouble, my lord?”

“Can he ever. That’s why I brought you along – I need you to keep him away while I talk with my beloved husband.”

“As you command, master,” said the elder, and he stepped in front of Sauron with his blade drawn.

Sauron drew back to watch the scene unfold without much trepidation. This elf was tenacious, always had been, but as for true power he had as little as he’d ever had and less – without a body to create things in the physical world.

“Herd him away from the hollow,” he ordered lightly, as the elf came back to attack him again. Really he was hardly any trouble out here, where the weight of his hatred could do no more to a spirit of Sauron’s calibre than a buzzing fly could irritate a tiger.

Where Sauron was about to go, however: there he feared he’d have more influence. The ghost came at Sauron, ignoring the elder, but this time did not even reach him. The ethereal matter that glinted slightly where particles infused with starlight gathered around the spiritual presence met the elder’s blade as it was thrust out to defend him, and it rent right through.

If Sauron wasn’t imagining things, the sound it made was more like the tearing of metal than the cry of a person or even animal. It was actually somewhat shocking.

The ghost sprang away from the dark blade and the elder jumped after it, clearing the path to the hollow of the tree and blocking the elf from trying to get there himself. Sauron spared his ‘kinsman’ a cool smirk – unseen, in all likelihood, but not unfelt – and approached the deep cavern within the tall oak’s bark, and the guardian that fixed its charges here.

Skewed and scratched beyond all point of being recognised for what it once was the hilt was barely visible in the darkness. It half-capped its blade, crooked so the crossbar had almost overtaken the pommel, and marked the entrance to his spouse’s hidden home; right in the centre of the threshold. Sauron took hold of it to guide his way around it as he entered, and there was an encounter.

He hissed.

Blackness poured into his mind with a crash like it had broken out of a bottle. In his chamber in Barad-Dur he felt himself seize up, even as the raiment in the wood pulled its hand back from the piercing touch. The sensation only lasted a moment, but its after-image lingered; shards of hatred dissolving behind his eyes.

It hadn’t been merely touching the hilt that had caused this – the slant had revealed more of the blade than expected and two of the raiment’s forefingers had been sliced open. Only a scratch, yet the damage was done; the venom imparted. With an annoyed grimace he tore a strip of cloth and bound the wound. The raiment would be fit for purpose until his return, he thought, but he would not be able to use it again. The cut would fester. There was no escaping that.

This was only to be expected though, for the sword was loyal. It hated him.

Another glare at the offending object, a glance behind at where the elder slashed at the meddlesome elf again and again, driving it ever further back as its screechings lengthened, and Sauron was absorbed into the shadows of the hollow.

The eyes he was looking through closed. At this point he didn’t really need the raiment anyway. Who needed corporeal form to parlay with a ghost? He took a step forward, then another, and he waited. If he was being honest, with himself at least, there was now a feeling in him, like a pit inside a stomach, like a foreboding sense that this wasn’t going to go the way he expected it to.

If he was indeed being honest, then he didn’t really know what to expect. How long had it been since he’d had any contact whatsoever with his spouse? He’d all but forgotten them before, guard down, quailing before that pompous, stuffy herald and trying to figure his way out, that little pulse had questioned him from all those leagues away.

_I’m here. Do you need me?_

That dreamlike trance had shattered like an arch whose keystone had been stolen away. That… that _elf_ , still bonded to him, still waiting on the other side of a door that sat inside their minds, still coherent and indeed, more coherent than he had been when Sauron had last left him. The fear he’d felt then, coming to that realisation, was not unlike that which he felt now, waiting in the dark.

But this might be his only hope of discovering where the rings were.

And.

If he had to be married to an elf…

Wouldn’t it be better?

He’d been with the son of Curufin of his own accord before, after all.

He hadn’t _had_ to do that to gain his trust.

And hadn’t Celebrimbor been happy enough with him beforehand too?

Whereas…

For his actual bondmate…

Well. Things had been quite different.

He saw the two of them side by side like a diptych in his head. One in light, the other in shadows. There were so many similarities between them from a distance but to him the images were nothing alike. He saw the fire that was the spirit of that branch of the family in the one; more warm, less burning than his fellow offshoots; the crackle that seemed like laughter and the light that lit for him. For others too, perhaps, but not if they were bonded. The flames from his skin to a raiment Sauron had lived in long enough to be called skin of his own. The energy and the passion.

He feared it. He wanted it. And not only for the rings.

There was only one way to get it.

Deep in the darkness, he knocked on the door inside his mind.

A cold wind blew, and the door opened. The next time he stepped forward, it was out into the open air, beneath a canopy a hundred times the height of the tree he’d just climbed into.

Before him, faintly visible in a mist that glowed with starlight, was the city of Gondolin, as it had never been before.

Sauron smiled.

“It’s me, Lomion. I need your help.”

*~*~*~*

This was a strange and eerie place.

Sauron had seen Gondolin at its height in person, just before it had been levelled to its depths, as he had led the armies of Morgoth within the gates and directed its destruction from behind the lines. But for a short while before that he had seen its interiors and its inner workings from behind its prince’s eyes. The great, gleaming towers of all the stories; the sculptures of marble and gold; the winding staircases and the dazzling gardens glowing in the sunlight.

_This_ place… what could he call it? The skyline was more or less the same, but where some of the more eclectically designed towers had been were now trees, taller than had ever truly grown within the encircling mountains – whereas, where some of the more traditional, simpler towers had been were solid blocks of stone or metal without decoration or differentiation from one another except to match the approximate height or width of those buildings whose positions they corresponded to in the Gondolin that was.

Here it was always night, or at least always sunless, but the buildings reflected more light than was sent their way, while the trees shone even less. The city before him was far more imposing than inviting, and yet as he approached the first of the seven massive gates that lead up to its walls a huge chain cracked and tumbled into a pile of mere links, and the gates swung open without a single bit of effort on his part.

Sauron walked on. It was a journey that should have taken hours, but the place was more a dream than a real space, and the land bent to bring the gates closer to him one after the other. They opened as soon as he was near, slowly but surely, steel rolling smoothly along grooves in the rock without so much as a hint of a creak. Each gate was eerily silent in its running, especially for such huge contraptions – towering above what the old famous gates of Gondolin once had, though without their stark differentiation. Where the Gold Gate would have been in the old city the replacement had a thin line of gold ringing each of the locking mechanisms and so on with the others, but otherwise each was steel plated with galvorn, dark and daunting.

It was difficult to say how long it took him to reach the entrance to the city. A loud gong rang out into the air – very nearly startling him – the moment he crossed the threshold. He almost expected the answering calls of a murder of crows, but there were no birds in this place, not even memories of them.

The streets were full of shadows. Shadows of people who once had been, as they were remembered in the city’s master’s mind. He had never had much comprehension of huge crowds. Sauron had to admit it was unnerving though, to see the shadows moving constantly out of the corner of his eye and then to look and see no one to cast them.

Only in the wide space where the great market would have been in old Gondolin was there any noticeable sound. The shadows were thicker here but there were no stalls, only tall, square arches that might have represented them to one who had never seen much more than shapes and noise when it came to this once-lively place.

That noise was not of the chatter of long-dead elves, though there was perhaps a ghost of that beneath the oppressive, droning hum that sent a shiver through him. He had to cover his ears when he reached the centre.

_Honestly, Lomion,_ he thought, quickening his pace. _If you hated the place so much why did you include it in your replica?_

_Why not replace it with another ridiculously huge tree?_

He soon found himself climbing over the root of one whose roots were large enough to stand in for where a row of houses would have stood in Gondolin that was.

Another almighty clang of a gong rang out through the city. Sauron flinched and clenched his fists in Barad-Dur, in annoyance that the stillness of the giant city in his mind was actually getting to him – him! The most powerful entity this side of the sea!

This was the danger of the bond he couldn’t forget. In the beginning, things had been different. Over time, because of his ignorance, it had come to this – evolved to the point where it was now a massive problem. A tear he’d left unattended until no amount of stitches alone could repair the damage.

_Careless,_ he chastised himself. _If this works, I will take better care of the second bond._

CLANG!

The gong, or bell, or whatever it was announced his arrival on the palace grounds. The House of the king’s nephew, the main building, had originally been part of the House of the King; an annexe of sorts, Sauron was unsure why it had already been built but stood empty prior to Lomion’s arrival in Gondolin. Perhaps Turgon had intended it for his sister’s use anyway, should she ever have returned, or perhaps he had been planning to bring someone else to live within his city.

Seemingly out of character, for an elf who – to Sauron, through Lomion’s memories – seemed to have become so isolationist and paranoid. But then, losing his sister to an outsider had perhaps cemented that.

Sauron walked the length of the grand parade that lead to the greatest tower of the city, remembering the day he’d first walked these steps in Lomion’s mind, all those centuries ago, in the real Gondolin. He was struck by the lack of colour in its replacement, more than anything. Lomion had taken the time to reconstruct the long silken banners that had hung prominently in the courtyard of his old home, but each of them had been re-imagined in black or white. Mostly long, block strips of each colour – occasionally one or two would be half-and-half.

There were no jewels or gold or sculpture decorating the long aisle either, nor even so much colour as he’d once seen in cascading petals thrown to welcome home returning Lords. The only plants were those that grew along a murky brook that was now also travelling the length of the parade up to the palace. In fact, the brook was coming from inside the palace, and even the leaves of those plants were closer to black than green.

Strange, but somehow enchanting in its own way. Sauron was mostly glad that the sound of running water had diminished the silence of the city. Instinctively, he made his way through plain marble corridors to the throne room, where the brook was leading – rather than heading straight to the annexe.

Ah, the old throne room of Turgon the ‘Wise’. Gone were the lights, the torches, the paintings – save for one – the carvings, the tapestries, glitter, the colour, the song and most of all the people. The once golden throne whose gilded vine decorations budding with pearls had spread up to the walls, the floor and even the ceiling was a tall, black block of stone rising up from between the roots of a real tall tree growing right in the centre of the palace.

_More like the seat of a Green-elf chief than a Noldo prince_ , thought Sauron. _Though they would never have been able to put together all this stone._ _You are conflicted as ever, my dear_.

On either side of the black throne were blocks of white marble, and on the left block was the only… entity, if he could call it that, other than himself within the vast room.

It was not his bondmate. In shape, it was vaguely like a rabbit. Once white, the silk toy made from an old dress and stuffed with down and dried seeds was badly burned on one side, soot smudging it all over. Plain black thread had embroidered its nose and mouth, and plain black stone discs sewn to its face resembled eyes – one, hanging off the face from a thread on the burned side. Its ears had been fashioned from the hide of an actual white rabbit, though one was torn, and had been dismembered and sewn back on noticeably too low down its head, with that same black thread. More black thread scars ran along its flank and legs.

Sauron sighed. He had really hoped he wouldn’t have to…

The rabbit turned its head, expectantly.

“Greetings… Lord Bunny Rabbit,” said Sauron. He tried not to cringe too much.

The rabbit moved, its arms waving in the air as if in excitement.

“Mairon!” it announced.

His old name. Sauron almost flinched again it had been so long since he’d heard it, but this was (in truth) coming from one person he didn’t think he could ask _not_ to call him by it.

“Mairon, you are in the city.”

It spoke with a small child’s voice. Sauron approached.

“Yes, Lord Rabbit. I have come to see my beloved, for I am in need of his help.”

“Beloved…” repeated the rabbit, sounding a little confused. “Beloved… Beloved! You mean Tithellon. You and Tithellon are married.”

“Yes we are,” said Sauron. “And I need to see him.”

There was a pause.

“You were gone a long time, Mairon. We didn’t know where you were.”

“I’m sorry I’ve not been by to see him sooner, my lord. There are many perils in the world outside between us, first and foremost being his father.”

“Father?” echoed the rabbit. It stood up on the seat, looking from side to side. “Was Tithellon’s Ada trying to keep you away?”

“Yes he was. But fortunately I was able to slip by him and get into the city.”

“You want to see Tithellon?”

“I do. Very much so.”

The rabbit cocked its head, but didn’t take long at all to make its choice. In two steps it was at the edge of the seat, where it turned, climbed down so it was hanging from the edge then let itself drop. It landed on its feet but overbalanced, falling back onto its rump with a soft ‘oof’. When it stood up again, Sauron raised an eyebrow to see it rub its behind as though hurt.

Then it hopped down the steps leading up to the three seats towards him.

“Tithellon is working in his workshop,” it told him. “I will take you. Follow me!”

Sauron sighed again. He knew the way to the workshop in the annexe, of course, but it wouldn’t do to potentially upset his host by refusing the guide.

Besides, who knew what else might have been different about the city of the old dreams, beneath the surface?

*~*~*~*

‘Lord’ Bunny Rabbit had been the best friend Lomion ever had – before Eöl had so cruelly disposed of him. It wasn’t surprising to find a replica of him here too, even all blackened from the fire Eöl had thrown him into when he’d tired of seeing his son talking to a poorly-made stuffed toy as though it were a real person.

Poor Lomion though; who else had he had to rely on in that haunted forest – with a father who too often locked him in a separate part of the house to his mother, when the fear that they would leave him grew too great? When they had finally reached Gondolin, before the poisoned javelin had begun to take effect, Irisse had been speaking of their flight to her brother and his lords, mentioning steps taken to avoid her husband’s servants. The elves of Gondolin had understood that to mean that Eöl had had elves working beneath him, keeping house and home.

He had not.

What Eöl had had had been a particularly strong relationship with the creatures of Nan Elmoth, _kelvar_ and _olvar_ both. Strong enough to carry over to his afterlife, so it seemed – hence that magpie earlier. They whispered to him of the comings and goings of the wood.

But they were not suitable replacements for having the company of fellow elves.

_Poor Lomion, indeed_ , he thought – to mock himself. _It’s telling that he’s so pathetic even I’m cringing for his sake, but I really shouldn’t bother._

Doing anything ‘for _his_ sake’ came too close to comfort to acknowledging the other side of the coin in the unwanted bond between them. Sauron had already allowed his influence to wane to all but nothing over the years, the idea that the balance might tip even further out of his favour was everything he’d wanted to avoid when this had started.

That painful day…

_“Do it.”_

_“But, Lord Melkor…”_

_“Do it, my servant. I command it. Or are thou afraid an elven prince’s mind might be too much for thee to handle?”_

_“…”_

Still, he followed the rabbit through the bleached corridors of stone and tree, across a root that here stood in for what had been a picturesque stone bridge across a gentle, elf-made waterway that was now a fierce river through the palace complex. The rabbit almost fell off the root halfway over and into the river, and Sauron almost dove forward to catch it, but somehow it held on with its felted claws and pulled itself back onto the path without even mentioning it.

There were no sounds of hammer hitting anvil coming from the workshop, which Sauron might have expected, but then he had the feeling he would have heard that even from outside the tree whose hollow was the entrance to this place. The rabbit, in defiance of its earlier gracelessness, jumped right up to the knocker on the door and swung on it, the bronze ring tap-tapping against the iron plaque.

“Tithellon!” it cried. It dropped to the ground again and jumped on the spot, waving its arms. “Tithellon – Mairon is here to see you!”

No verbal response was given, but Sauron heard the bolt on the other side of the door slide open, and he turned and gave a short bow to the toy.

“Thank you, Lord Rabbit – I’ll take it from here, shall I?”

The rabbit stared up at him and said nothing. A moment of awkward silence passed. Cringing again, Sauron turned and pushed the heavy door open.

Lomion’s workshop was neat, the forge was not lit and the tools were all placed in orderly fashion each on their own hook over one wall – which reminded Sauron of a wall he’d once had after the same fashion. The tools were not the same as his, it was true; Lomion was not keeping a single thumbscrew on hand, but Sauron was led to wonder what effect installing such a wall in Celebrimbor’s cell might have.

There were no projects visible on the work-tables, but on the opposite wall the large sheets of paper showing complicated design after design had overtaken the corners of the wall and were tacked even onto the ceiling. The adjacent wall held shelves of boxes and books of old designs, and opposite that there was a drawing board, and the back of a familiar head of raven hair at it, scoring a line along a straight edge with a stick of charcoal.

After all this time, it was strange this moment should have come with so little fanfare. He breathed in.

“Hello, Lomion.”

The elf’s head turned, but not completely.

“Mairon. I had word you were coming. What do you need?”

Sauron approached slowly, looking over the many lines and annotations on the board. A system of traps, designed to immolate an intruder unaware of the correct path towards a lair; first by dousing them in accelerant and then by firing a flaming arrow if they triggered twice – the delay intended to ward off any innocent bystanders who might step into the first trap and then, hopefully, understand to avoid the second.

Quite ruthless. The old Lomion would have known better than to waste any time on a device whose construction Turgon’s council would never approve of. Before the bond, the old Lomion might even have thought the trap too ruthless of his own accord. Sauron didn’t mention it. Instead,

“How curt. I happen to have a commission for you, my beloved.”

Reaching into his mind, Sauron pulled out the designs he wanted, whereupon they turned to papers in this dream and Lomion accepted them from him with a frown.

Centuries ago Sauron could have just said, ‘ _accept the call of Mandos, Lomion. Leave this world_ ’, and Lomion would have obeyed. Now…

Lomion unfolded the drawings and peered at what was on the papers. Ring, after ring, after ring. Each curve, each groove, each contour of each gem expertly detailed in the hand of Curufin’s son – a dozen or so for practice, nine for men and seven for dwarves; the sum total of all those years of collaboration, of the merging of their ideas and inspirations.

He was, he had to admit, not entirely surprised when Lomion declared them –

“Trash,” and handed the papers back. It still stung just a little.

“I had a feeling you would be less than appreciative of my partner’s aesthetic, beloved,” he said wryly.

“One brought up in the school of Feanor, I suppose.”

“Intimately so, as it happens.”

“I’m not a jeweller, Mairon,” Lomion told him, turning back to his fire trap. “I have no interest in crafting useless trinkets.”

“I know you don’t. But these trinkets are special. Read the brief for me, at least, won’t you?”

Lomion clicked his tongue like an unruly adolescent and took the papers again, finding the text that described the powers of these rings and reading it carefully. As he did, Sauron put the lightest pressure on his mind he could, using their bond to subtly encourage deeper understanding of the nature of the items – not full understanding, not yet, but enough for him to see the beginnings of what Sauron was really asking of him.

The dark eyes widened, black gloved-fingers tightening on the paper.

The elf looked up at him.

“These rings… they can truly do what this designer is suggesting?”

“They can. I’ve seen their power. But I have in mind an idea for one that would surpass those described here by far, only I need your help to realise the form that it might take. The other smith I had been working with before and I have… fallen out.”

He’d said something wrong. His spouse’s dark eyes suddenly went darker.

“Other smith? Why were you working with another smith?”

_Careful here._

“Because you don’t design trinkets, darling,” he answered smoothly. “In this case, however, I was hoping you would make an exception… for the sake of your husband.”

On the surface Lomion looked annoyed by the reminder, but Sauron knew how Lomion’s mind worked, knew his little quirks and expressions. Knew his heart. He took his duty to their bond as seriously as anyone could expect of a Noldo prince.

“I’ll read the rest of the brief,” he said. “Don’t expect anything right away though, Mairon, I have commissions from all over the city that take precedence. You know the king comes first.”

“Mm,” said Sauron. “Tell me, beloved – how many commissions _has_ your uncle been sending you these days?”

Even as he gestured at the steel in-tray on the side of his desk beside them, Lomion seemed surprised to realise it was empty. With an inkling that it would not be in his own best interest for Lomion to dwell on this too long, Sauron put his hand on his spouse’s shoulder.

“He always tells you, you work too hard, my dear.” Leaning forward, he pressed a kiss to the elf’s temple. Lomion shivered and blushed, just a little. “Get to it when you can, if it pleases you. I think it would be something special though, and more importantly most useful, in protecting my people from harm.”

Lomion turned back, frowning up at him. He was of average height for an elf, but because the house of Finwe tended to be so tall he looked somehow shorter than he was. Like he hadn’t finished growing. He knew Turgon had mistakenly assumed he was below his majority when he had first come to Gondolin.

It was strange, since Eöl would have been even taller than his wife without that stoop, and that had been caused by an injury, not by natural events. Maybe all that time shut up in that darkness had…

“Is there trouble outside the walls?” asked Lomion.

“Some,” Sauron admitted. Then snorted, “The house of Feanor has never stopped causing me trouble.”

Somehow that had also been the wrong thing to say. Lomion was too casual when he placed the designs in his in-tray.

“You probably shouldn’t have tried to partner up with one of them, then.”

Sauron blinked. _How did he…_

“Did you think I wouldn’t know?” Lomion asked him. There was very little emotion in his voice.

“I said my partner had been taught in the school of Feanor. I never said – “

“That he was Feanor’s grandson? Do you think I don’t know when you have _relations_ with other people? We _are_ married.”

This…

This was very bad.

Lomion turned away with a shrug. “I know our bond isn’t the same as other marriages. You’re of the Ainur. But this one was different, wasn’t it?”

He cocked his head, peering deeper at Sauron than before.

“Do you love him?”

Sauron withdrew immediately from the city all at once without thinking, vanishing on the spot to Lomion’s perception and opening his eyes within his chambers, within his armour, within the body that had twisted with the force of the world’s rejection of him into something unrecognisable from what he had once been.

Why? When he had hardly done anything more ‘evil’ now than what he had done a thousand years ago or a thousand years before that. Why only since Celebrimbor, and not since his uncle, or even more since Lomion?

He left that dream-city, but Lomion was still there, always, every movement of his soul tugging on a string that stretched between the two of them, more noticeable now than it had been since the Fall of Gondolin and the days following it.

_That was a stupid response,_ he told himself. _Stupid._ _You need to get him to trust you again before you tell him to accept the call to go across the sea where they can break the wretched bond. Running away is hardly the way to do that._

_But how did he know? How did he know without me knowing?_

It was as he’d feared when he’d seen how much presence Eöl still had in the forest – Lomion had become more powerful than he’d first imagined. Any other elf who’d spent as long as an unhoused spirit as he or his father would have long forgotten the barest vestiges of the life they’d once had, forgotten any reason they might have had _not_ to accept the call, and only the most naturally obstinate would still remain after that.

Across the sea, that was probably how they accounted for Lomion and his father’s continued absence. True Avari, the both of them – that’s what they would think. But Lomion was bonded to a Maia and by passively accessing his power across their bond he had retained the better part of his memory – and Eöl, by proximity alone, must have retained more or less enough.

The ‘marriage’ had lasted so long now that Lomion had absorbed the power to do more than that. To reconstruct his ability to reason – to an extent – and to exert his own will beyond what his husband wanted of him. To see through his eyes and into his memories without him knowing about it. To exert… influence, even, on the physical world within a certain radius.

What else might he have absorbed the power to do, while Sauron hadn’t been paying attention?

This had the shade of potential disaster about it. He needed to move carefully. Much more carefully than he had been.

He’d even stupidly left the elder in the forest, along with the blasted raiment. The idiot was probably still fighting Sauron’s deranged ‘father-in-law’, and it would be a while before Sauron had the wherewithal to contact him again from here. He sighed.

Convince Lomion to depart this world for the next. Or convince Celebrimbor he had no hope of avoiding a forced bond if he didn’t co-operate. One or the other he had to accomplish.

…

…

… preferably the first.

_No,_ he told himself. _Preferably both. You don’t want to end up bonded to Celebrimbor when you can see how dangerous a bond with an elf can be! You don’t want that, now._

…

_Do you?_

*~*~*~*

_“Do it. I don’t have a spare decade for thee to hang him by his arm on a cliff-face.”_

_“Lord Melkor…”_

_“Do it.”_

_…_

_…_

_…_

_The table had been finely wrought with silver inlay and carvings of beasts upon the legs; dwarf-made. Their catching of this captive’s eyes had been the only clue so far into what kind of elf he was outside of ‘difficult’._

_Turukano’s nephew. The grandson of Nolofinwe himself. The resemblance was undeniable except for those dark, Dark-elf eyes._

_He fed him well that night and had his finest human servants instead of orcs attend the table. From other captive elves he’d come to expect stern censure for the golden chains around his thralls’ wrists and ankles. Looks of pained sympathy for Second-born who’d never seen the sun or sky beyond Angband._

_From his current guest, nothing. Not a word. Not so much as a glance at his dead-eyed servers. If not for how fast Sauron could hear his heart beating, he’d have thought the elf cared nothing for his predicament at all._

_“Tell me, Princeling...”_

_He hadn’t known either of his soon-to-be mate’s names. The rumours of a child of the High King’s daughter had not been that detailed._

_“… do you know why elves die, when they are violated?”_

_The prince had kept staring solemnly, but his little heart had skipped a beat. Slowly, he’d turned his head towards the door._

_“I’m afraid you won’t be getting out that way, my dear.”_

_There had been a pause then. Awkward._

_It wasn’t like he’d really wanted to…_

_“Why don’t you finish your wine, my prince? Then we can begin.”_

*~*~*~*

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next time: we return to beautiful Barad-Dur, where our 'hero' attempts to woo his current princely guest with a romantic candle-lit dinner...


	3. Night Thirty-Five

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In this chapter, Sauron throws a dinner party and starts a ticking clock - or would have if clocks had been invented, but in reality has to do it old-school. Also, Eol is in this chapter, so warning for... well, for Eol.

When Celebrimbor had been very small his mother, like any elven mother, had taught him the meaning of the word ‘ _Estel_ ’.

The memories of elves were almost perfect – unless some unnatural phenomenon was interfering with them – and even now he remembered every word. But he also remembered reporting those words back to his father later in what had passed for ‘day’ back then, when Laurelin would fade to Telperion’s ascendency. Curufin would have returned from the forge as he always had for meal times, when Feanor was too ensconced in work to call the whole family together for it but Curufin was not, and little ‘Tyelpe’ would tell him of what he’d learned during the days he had not been learning from him directly. If he had been at the forge with his father, then the daily report would be made to his mother instead.

Painting had been his mother’s craft – and Curufin always at least seemingly interested in what his son would say of it even when he no doubt had known it all anyway. But when it came to theology…

_“Hmm. Vanyar nonsense.”_

_“You don’t mean that,”_ his mother had admonished. “ _Not just because your father is at odds with the Valar. Nor because the queen is of their people. Trust in Eru Illuvatar runs deeper than that.”_

_Trust_ , thought Celebrimbor, as the heavy doors to the corridor leading to his cell swung open in the distance, and the tap-tap of armoured shoes approached along the marbled floor.

_Trust._

_If I could only trust with the fervour some of my cousins had, I would hold out against him in every way that matters._

_But to trust…_

The footsteps drew closer. Celebrimbor was suddenly all too aware again of the condition his body was in; pained and exhausted. That poison had eventually made him vomit up anything that had been left in his stomach and he had been left to lie in it for more than a day until mere minutes ago, when a pair of heavily veiled women had scurried in and thrown buckets of icy water on him. He’d tried to speak to them, but they’d both screamed as soon as they’d heard his voice – as if the sound alone burned their ears and who knew? These were the thralls of Sauron. Maybe he’d bespelled his servants so Celebrimbor’s voice really did cause pain.

Or maybe he’d just convinced them that it would. The men and women who lived here worshipped the lieutenant of Morgoth like a god. Trusted him.

_You are a fool,_ he told himself again. _They’ve lived in this perdition all their lives, poor wretches. What’s your excuse?_

The door opened and it was Him, as Celebrimbor had known it would be. He fought to steel himself to face another confrontation with the creature. It had been uncharacteristically kind of him, he thought, to wait so long in between encounters. But then, with so many children of Eru and Aule in the world for him to torment he supposed he couldn’t expect him to spend all his time with his idiotic former lover.

“Well now, beloved friend, have you considered what I’ve said?”

“I would consider nothing said by the Deceiver to be worth entertaining in the slightest.”

He heard a little ‘tss’ sound, and imagined the eyes of his enemy were rolling on the other side of his dark helm. It made him wonder, idly, why Sauron hadn’t taken off his helmet once since he’d been brought here.

“You wound me,” said Sauron, sounding far more amused than wounded. “You entertained much of what I said about imbuing physical objects with power in the past. Speaking of – “

“I will never tell you where they are!”

“You will,” returned Sauron, without missing a beat. “In time. What your state of mind is when you do depends on you. Are you hungry?”

Celebrimbor didn’t dignify that with an answer.

“Is that a yes?” He clapped his mailed hands together with a sharp clang-clang. Immediately, Celebrimbor heard footsteps in the distance; as though many people were ascending a staircase beyond. “No? I could pause for a little while to dine at any rate – and you are free to join me.”

“Free, am I?” Celebrimbor asked doubtfully.

Sauron looked towards him like one smiling behind their mask. All at once Celebrimbor could smell roasted meat and fresh bread in the air and after a short pause the door to the chamber opened and human thralls began to hurry in, one after another. The first two carried – with no small effort – a long dining table of finely carved mahogany which was placed in the centre of the unoccupied space in the room. Then came men carrying chairs, two of them, then a tablecloth, candelabras, and a succession of women in the same hoods and veils as the ones he’d seen earlier – each with a separate, fine-wrought silver dish they placed quickly on the table. The men wore cloth masks; black, with a white strip across the eyes for seeing through.

When everything was in its place and a fine and lavish meal was laid before them all the servers but two hurried to the opposite side of the room and waited with their heads bowed down. The first two men approached Celebrimbor, pulling his steel restraints away as though they’d been no stronger than paper the whole time.

_No key,_ he thought. _They didn’t use a key to unlock them. Is there a hidden opening or does he use some strange power –_

A deep, shooting pain through both arms had Celebrimbor grit his teeth to keep from crying out, and not much wherewithal to act as they ushered him off the table. Everything hurt as he moved, cuts and burns and muscles, and though the latter would return to normal soon – him being an elf – the depth of the welts on his skin was enough to scar in several places. He inhaled deeply, scowling as much at himself for faltering as at the one who’d caused the wounds.

_These don’t matter. If he thinks as much as he’s done will be enough to cow me from seizing this opportunity…_

As they forced him down into a chair at one end of the table one of the men moved to take hold of the chain and for a moment his grip on Celebrimbor’s arm was loose. Celebrimbor moved lightning-quick, jabbing his elbow up into the unfortunate thrall’s chin with all the strength he could muster and jerking himself away from the other one.

But that thrall did not let go.

Rather, as his companion yelped and stumbled backwards, he tightened his grip on Celebrimbor and pulled himself closer. The elf overbalanced and hit the riven floor, thrashing about to try and throw off his guard, when all at once he felt a strange, blunt pain in the skin of his shoulder and craned his neck to look behind him where a sight that made him freeze with shock awaited.

Through the sack-cloth mask, the man was _biting_ him – like a rabid dog. And Celebrimbor could suddenly feel the press of bone all over, how thin and wasted the thrall was beneath the ragged clothes, and in that moment he felt like he could see beneath the mask at a set of haunted eyes wide with terror, and that moment of indecision cost him the attempt.

One of the women dashed forth, then two, then three; the first two grabbed fistfuls of his hair and pulled them up while the third knelt right down on the one hand he had free. She hardly had the weight on her to hurt him, but her nails clamped down into the skin of his hand and he could hear these little hissing squeaks coming from all sides like animals were clawing at him as they manipulated him back to his feet.

The man he’d elbowed in the face approached with the chains again, and though he wasn’t struggling nearly enough to need it, his vision swimming, all four of the others continued to hold him in place while he chained Celebrimbor tightly to the chair.

Sauron, sitting patiently at the other side of the table, drummed the plated tips of his dark gauntlet on the table-top until Celebrimbor’s struggles died down.

“Really, Tyelpe?” he said when it was done. “How embarrassing.”

He wasn’t wrong.

But at the very least, Celebrimbor had _tried_.

The poor servers who had rushed him scurried back into the shadows. Celebrimbor caught a glimpse of blood from a cut that had opened on his shoulder on the one man’s mask. Sauron flicked his wrist and another thrall – a child, by the size of them; a boy probably, as they wore the same type of mask as the men – came to Celebrimbor’s side.

“Cut his food for him,” Sauron told them. “I think it’s a little early to let him have the knife.”

“You think I’ll eat anything you set before me?”

Not missing a beat, Sauron simply waved again to the child and they paused in the sawing of the meat they’d picked from the dish to cut a smaller piece off and lifted up their mask to try a bite. Celebrimbor couldn’t help but wince, because he had no doubt Sauron cared nothing for losing one thrall because he had told them to eat something in order to fool Celebrimbor into thinking it wasn’t poisoned.

Celebrimbor knew little of such methods, yet he was sure not all poisons were immediately effective. There passed what seemed a long time then, while Sauron waited for him to cave in and try the food. Celebrimbor sat perfectly still and focused on keeping his nerve.

“No?” Sauron wondered. “Still don’t trust me? Or is this a petty rebellion? Maybe you think that if you don’t dine with me now, you’ll starve to death within the next few hours and I won’t be able to fulfil my promise to you?”

His voice, Celebrimbor noticed, was not muffled from coming beneath the helmet. Rather, it was almost as if the voice was coming from everywhere in the room and Celebrimbor hated it all the more because not too long ago he’d _adored_ the way Annatar would suavely talk circles around his enemies when they complained about his influence, making the most capable of lords stutter and seem like fools with a few silken phrases and a derisive smile.

Now Celebrimbor was on the other side of his derision and even though Annatar was Sauron, the Enemy, and hardly anyone whose opinion was worth considering, he just felt so stupid because of everything – and these sarcastic observations made it all the worse.

He said nothing.

“Oh? Not even a token ‘ _you’ll never fulfil that promise, demon! Eru Illuvatar would never allow it!_ ’?”

“Clearly you didn’t need it repeated.”

“Clearly. Well, never mind all that then. You’ll eat as much as you want, or as I decide you want, when we’re married. I have no intention of letting you die while in my care, beloved.”

_Be strong_ , Celebrimbor told himself. _Be the husband Narvi would be proud of._

“Shall we change the subject? Talk of our craft as we used to? I suppose you’re not working on anything presently, but I have something very exciting planned for my spare time. I think you’ll be quite appreciative.”

“A new rack? A bed of nails? An iron maiden?”

“Nothing so pedestrian,” said Sauron dismissively. “But rather as much as you’d expect a suitor to forge in preparation for a marriage. I’m going to make you a ring.”

There was something in those light words that seemed so ominous to Celebrimbor that he couldn’t help but inhale sharply even before his mind caught up with all the implications of it.

A ring? He meant another ring of Power, to be sure, but what could he have had in mind for such a personal tool when his input in the others had ultimately been to control their bearers through them? Thank Elbereth his trying to test his luck with one of their practice efforts had immediately alerted the wearers of the others to his true nature, but now no elf would touch those poisoned things – what use had he for another ring? Simply to give a means of more power to himself, as the rings were originally intended to give? Why? He had so much power already.

_He fears the three_ , his mind supplied the answer. _He is not entirely certain of their power, and he wants something of his own that he is sure can defeat them outright._

And yet to make a ring more powerful than the three… Celebrimbor couldn’t envision it. There was only so much the materials could hold or channel without being warped and then destroyed.

_This is a lie too_ , he thought. _He is trying to scare you, make you lose hope, lose –_

“You saw that sword once, didn’t you?” Sauron said.

Sword?

At first, Celebrimbor thought he was changing the subject again. But then –

“The stories all say you did. While you were in Nargothrond?” he chuckled. “You know the one I mean.”

Being a sword-smith, Celebrimbor had seen an awful lot of swords in Nargothrond, but he had a feeling he knew which was the one the ‘stories all talked about’. Thinking of that cold, dark blade in conjunction with Sauron’s implication of a more powerful ring, his heart began to beat uncomfortably fast.

“Anglachel,” Sauron confirmed for him with a voice that lengthened every syllable to give them weight. “I never saw it myself, I’m afraid. Who can say what happened to it after Turin used it to make himself a pin cushion? Though certainly, they say enough of what _will_ happen to it.”

He muttered darkly, as if to say he thought those prophetic tales were base nonsense, and to hide the fear he had that they might not be. After a brief pause he spoke again.

“What do you think though, my friend? Did the stories get out of hand? Or did that blade speak to you?”

“I never heard it _speak,_ ” said Celebrimbor, a moment before he realised he should neither have said that much, nor implied by emphasising ‘speak’ that there was even more to add – if by learning more about Anglachel Sauron hoped to create objects of even more destructive power. And indeed –

“But you sensed something,” Sauron inferred aloud. “A feeling – an emotion that wasn’t yours… or maybe just the simple sense that you were not alone in the room.”

For one who had never seen the blade himself, he certainly described it well.

“If it was an emotion, then I wonder,” he went on. “Was it truly that of the sword itself: as though one of the Children of Illuvatar might have had the ability to create new life with little more difficulty than their creator – ” again he spoke as one who scoffed at the idea he voiced, “ – or was what you felt only an echo, an impression of the creator himself.”

“Who can say,” said Celebrimbor – to hide as best he could the sound of his stomach growling. “I never met him.”

“Well, that was good fortune, probably. I’ve heard he wasn’t a very nice person.” Sauron turned his head momentarily to the sack-cloth masked child and as if he’d spoken without words the child stepped forward and poured a generous amount of wine into the goblet at Celebrimbor’s left – tasting it first in a smaller cup. “But then, that does seem to go hand in hand with great craftsmen. Present company excepted, of course.”

Was that supposed to be a dig at his father and grandfather? If so, Celebrimbor could hardly disagree, yet it irked him that Sauron of all people felt he had the right to make that judgement.

No, Curufin and Feanor had not been nice people. But they had loved him and he them.

He remembered suddenly that terrible day on the shores of Aman, the sight of smoke in the distance at Aqualonde from the edges of their camp, and his mother and father yelling at each other while Huan the hound whimpered softly at the side of his uncle, who watched the argument with loudly unspoken contempt for Celebrimbor’s mother’s cries of blasphemy and certain retribution from the Valar. Feanor had been called to the argument, one half-brother following behind with a pale face. Arafinwe and his children had not reached their encampment yet.

And their king had put his hand firmly on Celebrimbor’s shoulder saying –

_“If thou fear such punishment will fall upon our party,_ daughter _, thou are free to leave.”_

The sneer on the word ‘daughter’ had said plainly that he had never considered her so. The hand on Celebrimbor’s shoulder – so warm he barely felt the sea breeze against his body – had made it just as clear that if she did leave, she would be leaving alone.

Even so…

… she’d left.

…

_“It is right that a son should remain with his father,”_ she had said weakly to him, at that time, her hands trembling around his.

Perhaps she had foreseen how much misery to the land all three generations would bring.

_Fortunate perhaps_ , he thought, _that Narvi and I could never had had children. Eru knows what woeful fate would have awaited them_.

“Oh, I’m sorry,” said Sauron with a chuckle. “Did I say something wrong? And there we were, being so civil with each other for a change. Almost like old times.”

“Those times will never come again,” Celebrimbor said fiercely.

“Yes, yes. But back to that sword. If we assume for a moment that the ‘will’ it supposedly had of its own was really no more than an echo of its master’s, and it is possible to imbue an item with a measure of one’s ‘will’, and – as we know – to imbue an item also with ‘power’, then I believe it would be perfectly possible to imbue an item with both will and power, and to control the ebb and flow of power by that will, so as to need none of one’s own when using the item in question. Am I making sense to you?”

He was. A horrible kind of sense.

“You think you know how to imbue an item with your will?” Celebrimbor asked. He tried to sound dismissive, but the reality was so terrible that he couldn’t help but let some of his true feeling colour the words. “It isn’t as if you could just ask Anglachel’s maker.”

“No, it isn’t – but then if a deranged barbarian Avari could figure it out I think I should be able to do the same, don’t you.”

“Not necessarily,” said Celebrimbor. “But I happen to have difficulty envisioning the process of a deranged mind. I suppose you’re a different case.”

“Oh, well done, darling,” Sauron laughed. “Truly, I shouldn’t have left you alone so long when it’s given you the time to work on such witty returns.”

He felt more stupid than before. And it was stupid to feel so, but the smooth sweetness in the voice that seemed to come from everywhere made him feel as stupid as he’d once thought anyone else Annatar had ever mocked in his presence – and worse.

“Of course,” Sauron added “I had my little project to attend to.”

There was something loaded in that throwaway remark, like there was even more at work in this ‘project’ than a ring to overcome all others – as if that wasn’t a terrible enough thought to contemplate.

The truth of it was, Celebrimbor hadn’t been able to see to the security of the three as best he could have, if only he’d had the foresight to know how bad things would become. He trusted their keepers with their safety, but with their use… that was another matter. They had not been crafted specifically for their current bearers and the bearers hadn’t had the understanding of them he would have wished to give. So, as for using them against their enemy…

He couldn’t say for certain how that would turn out even if Sauron never made this One ring he was speaking of. It might have been better in the long run if the three were never brought out into the open at all.

But then would the free peoples of Middle Earth be able to face Sauron and his power without them? Or with them, even?

“Do eat something, Tyelpe. Otherwise I shall have to insert a feeding tube into your throat through your nose and pump raw eggs into your stomach.”

_… what?_

Celebrimbor stared.

“Trust me, it’s the most efficient way,” Sauron assured him, with a certain ruefulness. He paused before he spoke again. “I learned that while working on your uncle, come to think of it. Such a downer. Thank goodness I never had to marry _him._ ”

“Well, there’s one thing we can both agree on!” spat Celebrimbor icily.

Again, a memory came to him from that age. It had been after two weeks of being told ‘not yet’ by Curufin every time he’d asked to see his eldest uncle when Fingon had brought him back from Thangorodrim that the boy Celebrimbor had been had snuck into the healing chamber without permission. Two weeks of the finest healers’ work on an elf whose constitution Celebrimbor would even now have said stood second to none, and still he had thought he must have slipped into the wrong tent. That vibrant red hair paled to sickly orange – what was left of it. The weathered skin lined with creases that had lasted years afterwards. The eyes, closed with healing sleep – and what they’d looked like when they’d opened.

Even though Maedhros’ later deeds still filled him with a heavy sense of shame, he loved him and had been loved no less than had been the case with Curufin or Feanor.

And he had slept willingly with the one who had done _that_ to him, so he supposed now Maedhros would have had every right to feel the same way about him.

“You wouldn’t have liked me for an uncle?” Sauron asked, saccharine. “I certainly wouldn’t have liked him for a husband. He was nowhere near as entertaining a companion as you are.”

Celebrimbor would have responded but just then there was a thump on his left and when he turned his head he saw the child who had been his taste-tester drop down to his knees, gasping.

_No_ , thought Celebrimbor, looking from the child to the food and back. _Eru, no – don’t tell me it was poisoned after all!_

None of the other servers moved an inch.

“Hmm?” Sauron followed where he was looking. “Oh. Come to think of it – Men can’t tolerate yew berry, can they?”

Horrified, Celebrimbor kept looking from end to end of the room, but the other men and women just stood there while the child continued to gasp long, slow breaths – their hands reaching up to their throat.

Yew. He knew there were a number of things elves could eat that men couldn’t but he hadn’t known…

… this had been Sauron’s plan. Celebrimbor was suddenly near-certain that the food was not poisoned or tampered with in any matter, but Sauron had anticipated that he would refuse to eat it and brought a human tester to poison themselves for his refusal. Now this child, this child who had never seen the sun and thought Sauron was its god, was going to suffer – perhaps die – just so this _thing_ could make a point about disobedience.

Stupid as ever, Celebrimbor turned back to him with a pleading look.

“Do something!” he implored.

“Why?” Sauron asked him. “I heard tell from some very wise lore-masters that death is Eru Illuvatar’s gift to the race of Men. What a blessing for this one to have died so soon, in the service of his Lord and Master. A noble passing.”

The terrible wheezing from the child grew worse; lower and rattling, and Celebrimbor thrashed against his bonds looking for something in the room that he could use to help him. Finding nothing he tried the other servers –

“Will none of you come forward to help him?!” he cried.

They would not.

Not until Sauron casually waved his hand in the air from one woman to the child, and she scurried over like a shadow.

“Take him away,” he ordered her, sounding bored. “The noise is upsetting my guest.”

With bony hands the woman grabbed the shirt of the child at his shoulders and dragged him to his feet, pushing him forward at arm’s length towards the door like she was afraid to get too close. When she was at her nearest to him Celebrimbor heard a low, hissing kind of growl – an animalistic sound from one who was trying to ward off potential dangers.

There was no trace of concern or tenderness in her movements – she practically threw the stumbling child across the threshold before closing the door behind her.

“You really should have just eaten the food, Tyelpe,” Sauron taunted.

_That child is going to die,_ Celebrimbor thought. _A miserable death to cap a miserable life and all for nothing._

He knew, in his head, that this was what Sauron wanted. Not the death of some random child but to make him despair, by any means he could, of anything and everything. To make him capitulate. He knew, in his head, that he couldn’t let him win like this.

But the creature was just so _good_ at this.

“See, that’s what I’m talking about,” Sauron told him, waving forth another servant – a woman this time – to take the place of the child. “Dear old Maitimo the mighty would not have tried to plead to my thralls for help. Would certainly not have tried to plead to me for the life of a thrall. Of course, back then my thralls were all Umanyar and dear old Maitimo considered their lives worth less than rocks, so perhaps that’s an unfair comparison.”

“My uncle was not like that,” growled Celebrimbor instinctively, before he remembered how difficult arguing that case was and how little point there was in arguing it with this monster.

“No, no, of course not. He may have slaughtered grey-elves by the thousand when the mood struck him – but deep down, I’m sure he had a heart of gold. He never gave in to me – or ‘His Majesty’, and that’s what really matters, isn’t it?”

What really mattered? Celebrimbor didn’t know. He felt somehow that there was something beneath Sauron’s words in that last sentence that he wasn’t understanding. Some secret grievance… about his uncle?

Maybe he was displeased the lore-masters gave him no credit for the two kinslayings Maedhros ordered, as if to say his torments may not have engendered Maedhros’ capitulation, but they had twisted his soul enough to make those crimes possible. Privately, and regretfully, Celebrimbor doubted that was the case. That was not to say the uncle who had carried him on his back through the fields outside Formenos would have done the terrible things his later self was destined to, but it was more complicated than Sauron ‘turning’ him to evil. There had been one kinslaying prior to that, for one thing.

But then what did he mean by that echo of bitterness Celebrimbor had heard? It was true, little detail was said of ‘Mairon’s’ defection to Melkor. The histories called it a ‘seduction’, but to his knowledge no one knew what exactly had swayed his mind. Perhaps Annatar was trying to tell him…

_No. No, don’t go down that path_ , he warned himself. _Whatever happened all those years ago, he is the Enemy now. You know what he has done. What would Narvi say if he could hear your thoughts now?_

_“I’d say you were a damn fool elf!”_ he imagined Narvi saying, and focused his mind back on this current hell.

“But you don’t want to talk about that, clearly,” Sauron was saying. “It seems you don’t want to talk to me at all – and there I thought the idea of my wedding band would at least hold some interest with you.”

“Narvi is my husband, not you,” Celebrimbor spat. “That is how it is and how it always will be.”

“Narvi, Narvi, Narvi,” sighed Sauron. “Being an elf, I suppose the etiquette about such things isn’t as well-known in your circles, but among mortals it’s considered in very bad taste to constantly mention a former lover when with your current love.”

“You are not my lover,” Celebrimbor returned. “There is no love between us. I wouldn’t love a monster and a monster cannot love anyone.” He snorted. “Except themselves.”

“Now who is acting as the ‘Deceiver’?” Sauron taunted him. “I suppose we’ll find out soon enough.”

He turned his head then, as though a thought had occurred to him that he lost himself within almost at once. It was a long moment before he turned back.

“Our wedding is set for thirty days hence,” he told Celebrimbor then.

There was a cool hissing sound from the corridor beyond. Out of the corner of his eye Celebrimbor saw the men and women in the room trying to shrink back further into the shadows, and the doors to the room creaked open to reveal a fearsome sight.

It was one of the ‘Elders’ in its scarlet cloak, carrying before themself a huge hourglass. These were creatures so-named because they had been around since the First Age or before, but did not necessarily fit into the other tribes of monsters and abominations Melkor had wrought. Creations that foul thing had thought impractical to manufacture on the massive scale he had with orcs, or others of their ilk. Few were left now – thank Elbereth. They were invariably more dangerous than their more numerous comrades.

The elder placed the glass down beside the table Celebrimbor had been chained to, turning it over so that the sand would begin to fall. Celebrimbor judged it to have held enough sand to last a day, and noticed decorated around the top a set of numbers in a wrought framework of flourishing shapes. It moved the frame around the numbers slowly, making a sharp _click, click, click_ noise that very quickly grew unbearable – until the largest part of the frame, centring around an oval hole, clicked into place around the number ‘1’.

“Like I said,” Sauron went on, “I would much prefer if such extreme recourse were unnecessary.”

“Because it is physically impossible, and a foul lie?”

“ – because I can foresee how being married to an elf would make that elf a liability. A target for those who would seek to undermine me. Of course, if all went well then there would be no one left with the power to do me serious damage this side of the sea, but there would still be that period of uncertainty, you understand?”

Celebrimbor said nothing.

“At any rate there you have it – your thirty-day grace period. We’ll see whether or not I manage to convince you in the mean time of the better choice.”

“The better choice? Wherein I betray all the free peoples of the world to spare myself the possibility of becoming your spouse?”

“I would give you a quick death afterward, if it was your wish,” Sauron offered. “Or, if you could see past what you think is ‘right’ or ‘wrong’, you could find an even more privileged position at my side as an advisor and general. Fine riches, taller towers than Eregion ever saw; anything your little heart desired.”

“Sell my soul for profit, rather than for relief?” spat Celebrimbor. “Thanks for the offer, but I’m no Maeglin Lomion either.”

Abruptly Sauron laughed, hard – a laugh that seemed to shake the walls and floors but really only shook Celebrimbor’s spirit, making his body shiver as the echoes of that cruel laughter faded into his memory, lingering there.

“Oh, Tyelpe,” he cried out, chortling still inside his armour. He carried on for a while like that, then – “No Maeglin indeed, what can I say to that!?”

Just as abruptly as it began, the laughter trailed off. Sauron’s index finger tapped the top of the table.

“Maeglin Lomion…” he said, reminiscing from the sound of it. That must have been a sweet victory indeed for him, Celebrimbor thought.

But Sauron sighed, and spoke in a tone Celebrimbor couldn’t decipher.

“I’ll tell you about Maeglin Lomion someday, my dear,” he said, then paused. “But not today.”

He stood up.

“And that leaves us with only one question. Do you prefer duck, or chicken eggs?”

_Stay strong_ , Celebrimbor told himself. _If Maedhros was able to endure this you can too. Narvi would say the same._

But the Narvi in his head had presently been chased away by that last laugh.

*~*~*

Deep in the woods, in the city of stone and steel, a song resounded through the streets and forest paths – the voice that sang so low it might have come from the bottom of the ocean.

“ _There once was a Lady of Blacklock Clan,  
Her name in the deep-walls is hewn;  
Sing all, of the Lady of Blacklock Clan,  
And the tresses that shone like the moon._

_I heard the tale said by a wandering bard;  
Though sing would he not as he told,  
But spoke through his tears, this nameless bard,  
Of the sorrowful story of old._

_He cried for a Lady with raven-black hair;  
Who delved in the deep long ago -   
The most precious of gems to be set in black hair,  
Would the mountains upon her bestow._

_The lone child she was of a maker of swords…”_

On that line the song paused, as the singer’s sigh faded into the wind.

_“Are you listening to me, my son?”_

_“Are you hiding in your workshop with your little toys again?”_

He chuckled.

_“No matter. I know you can hear me, my child. There is nowhere in this forest my voice cannot reach you, and this forest will always be everywhere around you.”_

_“Every tree’s shadow you pass through speaks to me of your presence. Their voices sing to me on the wind.”_

_“Why do you still dwell here – among these towers and these vanities of thieves and invaders?”_

_“Why do you still hold these places in your heart, when they do not hold you in theirs?”_

_“They never wanted you; not an elf of my blood – whatever other ore was mixed into your alloy.”_

_“They never understood us – our ways, our spirits. We were little more than animals to them – and you all the more unsettling for being half an animal in their all but useless eyes.”_

_“You don’t belong among them, child of mine.”_

_“Yet here you are after all these years.”_

The last part was said with a more derisive snort.

_“In your gated city.”_

_“My son, a gate allows others both inside and out. Why do you not see this?”_

There was a long pause.

_“He will come again, you know.”_

_“He wouldn’t have come in the first place, if he didn’t have something in mind.”_

_“I think you understand at least this much.”_

The next pause seemed to carry more of an anticipation in it, as though the singer hadn’t expected his son to answer him before, but now he did.

And for a moment, there was a stir in the air – as if there had almost been an answer before someone thought better of it.

So the singer went on,

_“If I were to make a prediction… I would say he is going to ask you to depart these shores.”_

There was a pulse; something struck by a sudden panic that made the entire space flinch. It lasted only a moment, then righted itself.

When the singer spoke again, it was with a smile of triumph in the words.

_“But then, what would a Golodhrim prince find worth considering in the prediction of a primitive dark elf?”_

The words seemed to end there; a settled feeling descending on the leaves.

But then he spoke again, and all was on edge.

_“On the off-chance, my son, that I am correct in the prediction, however…”_

_“You do know that you must never do that, don’t you?”_

_“This is your home. You must never leave.”_

_“Never, ever leave these lands, or it will be even worse than it was before.”_

_“You know I’m right in this.”_

_“Maeglin.”_

_“Maeglin, are you listening to me?”_

_“Don’t ever leave your home again.”_

_“Don’t ever leave_ our _home again.”_

_“Otherwise…”_

The trees were still, not daring even to let the wind shake their leaves when this singer spoke.

Yet he said no more after that.

Only began to sing again.

“ _The lone child she was of a maker of swords…”_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next time on this, Lomion and his Bunny Rabbit have an adventure, and Sauron and Celebrimbor have a nap.


	4. Night Thirty-Six

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yeah, I have no excuse for not adding this chapter sooner. I'm the worst. Stay tuned to the End Notes for some special bonus content to make up for it!
> 
> Spoiler: The bonus content does not make up for it. Not by a long shot.
> 
> Also, thank you to everyone who commented, left kudos, or has just read this far. :)

“Tithellon? Tithellon, wake up. Your father is here again.”

Lomion opened his eyes to find he had fallen asleep at his desk again, and Bunny was shaking his shoulder. He stirred, looking from his first friend to the designs around the workshop, and the open door through which the song of the Blacklock Lady could be heard.

Mairon had just been here. He looked down at the drawings on his desk.

_The ring commission_ , he remembered. _I’d better do a good job of this one. Otherwise he’ll try to use that other smith of his._

Flashes of a face he recognised but didn’t know – or was that the other way around? – showed themselves to him. A smiling elf with the Noldor look about him, and that of Finwe’s house in particular.

_Kinslayer,_ he thought, immediately. _Why did Mairon go to one of them? I’ve been here the whole time._

_“The lone child she was of a maker of swords  
the finest of blades he had wrought…”_

Focus switching to his father, Lomion looked back at the door and then turned to the rabbit. “Do you think he’s made his way into the city?” he asked. Though the notion made him uncomfortable, he remained calm for the time being.

“I don’t know,” said Bunny. “But I can hear him. I could hear Muindor too, earlier. He was very angry.”

“He doesn’t like Mairon,” Lomion muttered.

“Tithellon, let’s go out into the trees. You’ve been working lots and lots today.”

Lomion considered it for a moment, drumming the tips of his fingers on the top of his desk.

“… I want to finish this first,” he said.

“Oh, please, Tithellon – do let’s!” Bunny hopped up and down as he pleaded. “Mairon won’t be back for ages, I’m sure. He never comes here ever!”

“Obviously he does, since he was just here.”

Thinking of Mairon brought another image to mind suddenly. A dark room with an unnatural light, like something glinting off a fell creature’s black eyes, and shadows scurrying about in the darkness. There was a meal laid out on a table, and across from him someone with many wounds chained up to a chair. It was just a flash, but he thought –

… was that a memory? He had had a memory like that, hadn’t he?

“Tithellon?”

“Hush. I think I remembered something.”

There was a long pause. Lomion tried to bring the image of the dark dinner back to his mind, but it was blurring, disappearing the more he strived to reach for it.

_“And she was possessed of a singular skill;  
The first dwarf to master this rite…”_

Of course, Ada would be distracting him at a time like this.

“Remembered…?” Bunny echoed. “You weren’t looking at yourself this time?”

Lomion frowned. That was one of the tricks they’d discovered since they’d come here. In real memories, ones that were actually his rather, he couldn’t be looking at himself – unless there was a mirror in the room. That person with the long dark hair, chained up – had that been himself? If so, it was either something from Mairon, or something he was imagining must have happened at some point.

He remembered everything, that he was pretty certain of. Or almost everything, Or enough. He just didn’t always remember that he remembered it. And sometimes… he remembered things that weren’t right.

“No,” he said slowly. “I remember… I had manacles on my wrists… but I was still wearing clothes at that time… so you’re right – that can’t be a proper memory. I think it’s Mairon’s thoughts.”

“Do you think he’s trying to trick you?”

“… no. He might have been thinking about me though.” He huffed. “That chained elf is probably the other smith. If they’ve fallen out like he says then why does he want to spend time with him?”

_He wants to go to bed with him again, probably_ , he thought with annoyance.

It wasn’t that Lomion particularly wanted to take the kinslayer’s place, but he and Mairon were married – so if Mairon had to sleep with anyone it should have been with him.

_The kinslayer was already married before though_. _He’s probably better at that sort of thing than me, and it isn’t like Mairon is going to want to spend time teaching me._

All the more reason to really inspire him with the design he wanted, to make him see that Lomion was – overall – much more worthwhile than this scion of Feanor.

But.

_“To draw with her hands the radiance of a flame,  
And to those gems anchor its light.”_

Bunny tugged on his arm. “Come on, Tithellon! Let’s go on exploring adventures! Your father will find us if we stay in the workshop. He always comes here.”

_He always finds us wherever we go_ , thought Lomion miserably. Bunny was right though. He could at least delay the inevitable if he left the workshop now.

“All right,” he said with a sigh. “We’ll go out into the city and explore.”

“Hooray!” cried Bunny, hopping down from the desk. He stumbled over his own ears but didn’t let that deter him in the slightest. “We’re going on an adventure! We’re going on an adventure!”

“Shh!” Lomion told him, bending down so they were almost at the same height.

(had he been short enough to do that, a moment ago?)

“Don’t let Ada hear you. I don’t want him to throw you in the fireplace again.”

Bunny put one paw up to his chin with worry.

“All right, Tithellon. I’ll be quiet.”

He hopped over to the door and sprung up to lift the latch while Lomion dealt with the locks. When Bunny made to open the door he put his hands on his shoulders to hold him back with a withering look for the rabbit’s lack of caution. Bunny cringed and moved aside to let Lomion open the door.

Just forward enough to peer through the crack, he moved from side to side to try and get the best view. The white flagstones stretched out to the river, empty of even shadows. Lomion pushed the door a little further open so he could get his head around and scope the entire front of the building.

No sign of his father. He looked up just in case the other elf was hiding in the tree tops, but saw nothing – and if he _had_ been there, Lomion was reasonably confident he would have seen him.

He was good at that kind of thing.

“It looks safe,” he said quietly. “Let’s go.”

The pair hurried out into the courtyard towards the root-bridge. Because Bunny was so clumsy, Lomion carried him in his arms across the fast-flowing river and back towards the main palace. Fortunately, none of the household servants seemed to be there to see him – he wouldn’t have wanted them to report that he was slacking off to his uncle. Or worse, to Itarille.

It was better if they avoided the central palace today, he thought. Now that he had a commission from Mairon he didn’t want anyone to pull him aside with ‘just a small job’ to divert his attention.

“Where shall we explore today, Tithellon?” asked Bunny.

“I don’t want to go down into the city,” said Lomion quickly. While it was likely Eöl wouldn’t want to go there either he was in no mood for the voices of thousands of other elves chattering away to assault his ears. “Let’s explore the other Houses. I don’t think any of the Lords will be there today.”

They’d all gone away somewhere, hadn’t they? It was just like them to all be gone and not take Lomion with them. Not that he minded too much – most of them were either too loud or too obnoxious for him to want to spend a lot of time with them.

Bunny seemed to pick up on this hint of derision, because he asked –

“Aren’t any of the other Lords your friends?”

Lomion hesitated.

“… they’re all right,” he muttered.

“Whose house are we going to go to?”

“Ecthelion’s is the nearest. Did I show you the fountains I built in his courtyard?”

“Hmm. I didn’t know you built Ecthelion’s fountains, Tithellon.”

That seemed an odd thing to say, since Bunny should have known he’d built those. But then Lomion thought about it for a moment and realised Bunny must have confused the ones he’d built with the old ones.

“I built the new ones,” he said, “after the old ones Ecthelion built with Rog were destroyed by that balrog.”

He blinked, and in his mind he could see the great creature of shadow and flame barrelling its way through one of the outer walls with a tremendous roar. When he blinked again it had suddenly changed position in his memory, bringing down the dark whip on a line of steel-clad elves.

Then he blinked twice more, but couldn’t stop the brief flash of seeing the balrog run forward – another of its kind close behind it, beneath the same sky and over the same silhouette of the city the way it used to look. The whole time he had just stood in the same place in that memory.

Lomion screwed his eyes shut and shook his head back and forth.

“The new one looks much better,” he declared. “It doesn’t have all those pointless jewels on it, and the design is much more streamlined.”

“Shall we go and see it?”

“If you want,” Lomion replied with a shrug.

The white garden walls of the House of the Fountain were covered in thick black vines of ivy sprouting dark green leaves, which made them easy for Lomion to climb. He remembered being here on the cusp of summer when the flowers were out – not as colourful a garden as some, but still too flashy for his tastes; all those waterways rife with different coloured lilies.

Right now it seemed only the proper, white lilies were in bloom. What time of year was it again? It was difficult to tell from the current weather; soothingly overcast as usual. Autumn, he thought. He could hear the leaf-fall song whispering from beyond the city walls if he concentrated. There were not so many pointless decorations on the masonry around the water features either, but he had put a few knot-patterns on the corners when he’d rebuilt, because he knew Ecthelion liked that kind of thing.

“It’s this way,” he told Bunny, who had stopped to look at some snow-white carp, gliding through the dark waters of one of the longer pools.

Bunny hopped off the side of the pond and returned to him as he rounded the hedgerow that bordered the centre of the garden.

“Oh,” said Bunny, appreciatively. He took Lomion’s hand. “You did a good job, Tithellon. It’s very pretty.”

The fountain in the centre of the garden was much wider than the one that used to be there – a hundred and three feet in diameter. Where the old one had been built up with a seat all around the container for the water, this one was shallow, and built in to the polished granite floor with a dip so shallow one could barely notice it except for on the side where it rose enough from the ground to allow the drain for the water to be built in.

The spouts were also far from what you would have seen if you’d come before the balrog. Lomion had stuck with stone instead of the sapphire-encrusted metal constructions Rog had probably wrought. Three triangular obelisks with sloping tops for the water to run down, all next to each other to accentuate their three different heights. They were smaller than the huge spouts they had replaced, but with the space emptied out of all the previous clutter their effect (in Lomion’s opinion) was much more striking. Not to mention that one hardly needed a thousand sapphires when the light travelling through the water as it bubbled over the black stone was equally effective.

In Lomion’s opinion.

“You must have worked very hard to plan it all out, Tithellon,” said Bunny.

“I suppose so,” said Lomion.

He looked all around the wide, open circle of this section of the garden, suddenly finding the gentle flow of the water much louder. The air was very still beside it, and he saw no movement in the surrounding walls or foliage.

Were there no birds out today? – he wondered.

“Let’s keep moving,” he said quietly.

Bunny had been about to go and splash in the fountain, but he turned back then and nodded, following Lomion to the outer wall.

The garden of the House of the Golden Flower was on the other side. Lomion had included a covered passageway from the one garden to the other in his re-design in case the two lords ever decided they’d prefer to be discreet. It wasn’t like he cared either way, he just liked to think they’d appreciate _that_ , at least, even if they were disappointed with his general choices for the building and landscape design.

Not that Lomion had ever really noticed anything between them other than spending a lot of time with each other, but he’d certainly heard _others_ complaining about it. Across the sea, it seemed, it had been understood that marriage existed for the creation of children, and so should only really occur between male and female – though there was no actual law about it.

Recalling that though, Lomion felt a pit begin to stir in his stomach. It had been a long time now since he had married, and he didn’t think he’d ever witnessed the reaction to it from the others. Turgon tolerated the ‘open secret’ relationship between his friends because they were his friends, but a nephew was different. Some of the other Lords were bound to complain – maybe had complained already, depending on how much they knew. Lomion wasn’t entirely sure.

He swung his leg over the top and jumped down onto Glorfindel’s side of the wall. Maybe, since Mairon was of the maiar, they’d understand that it was different, he hoped. They couldn’t create a child, obviously, but there were other things their union could…

… create.

The greenery was a bit lighter on this side of the wall. There was a path bordered by gingko trees, their pale yellow leaves largely strewn across the pale paving stones.

_“ ‘Sword-maker’ the servant cried, ‘hear what I say;  
And by my grave mission abide…”_

The notes of the song suddenly becoming clearer again Lomion turned around with a flash of fear, in case his father had snuck up on them somehow, but he saw nothing. Eöl had gone to the workshop, he realised, as they had predicted.

_He_ didn’t seem to care, at least, that Mairon was male. Lomion wasn’t sure if that was because his people approved of those kind of relationships (he didn’t actually know whether they did or not – Eöl would only really expound upon their people’s ways when they differed from something Nana had said, and this had never come up), or because his friends the Dwarves would have approved (he knew _they_ would – or would have had no quarrel on that account, anyway).

“I am here, Tithellon,” said Bunny, taking his hand. “Don’t be afraid.”

“I’m not afraid of _him_ ,” said Lomion dismissively.

It seemed though, that after hearing the song he was smaller than before. It took longer for him to climb over the wall into the main courtyard, and the wall was of uniform height the whole way around the garden.

The House of the Golden Flower was made largely of black marble, as Lomion had thought it a good contrast to the white House of the Fountain. In lieu of sticking giant golden flowers all over it like the first one, Lomion had created a compound of smaller, hexagonical and heptagonical buildings around a main, octagonical house. There was a border of parallel lines gilded around the top and the idea was that from above they might resemble – somewhat – a bouquet of flowers.

There was also a golden climbing plant around the octagon, but it was not in flower now, it being Autumn.

True, he knew Glorfindel didn’t particularly care for the colour black. But surely even he had to realise that gold showed up much better against that than against white?

_I should not think unkindly of Glorfindel_ , he told himself. _Even though he is a simpleton. He has never been unkind to me, or spread rumours about me, and he is Uncle’s friend. It isn’t good to hold vitriol against such a person._

“I’ll show you something,” he told Bunny, trying to clear the feeling away. “This is the main door.”

The huge double-door had been shaped from sturdy black timbers and accented with plain steel bands, also black, forming an arch at the top. Lomion unlocked it and turned back.

“I hid something in case Lord Glorfindel complains there aren’t enough flowers.”

He swung the door open.

The edges of the door, visible or not, had a pattern of circles cut into them, and within each circle a flower such as the emblem of the House had been carved and gilded – the circles sunk so that the flowers never rubbed up against the frame or the edge of the other door.

“Wo-ow!” said Bunny, slowly.

“I made every door in the octagon with this pattern on the edge,” Lomion said, with satisfaction.

“That’s really clever!” said Bunny. “And they’re very pretty too! Maybe Mairon would like it if you put flowers on the inside of the ring!”

Lomion scoffed at the idea and was just about to ask Bunny sarcastically if he really thought putting Glorfindel’s emblem on the ring for Mairon would go over well when he stopped.

All of a sudden, he had a flash of inspiration. The brief for the design of the ring had left the jewels and decoration up to him – which he was pleased about, since it meant he didn’t have to include either – but it had specified the inscription. An inscription of more than eighty characters on a single band! It was doable, of course, but to do it and make it look good at the same time…

But now he wondered – what if one never saw the inscription simply by looking at the ring? Oh, he could have put it on the inside of the band, yes, but that would have been even more difficult to make look right, besides being an inelegant path to tread, especially in light of what he remembered now from a childhood visit to Nogrod – that lamp decorated with engraved bundles of sticks. When the metal was heated up, they used the fire-reveal technique to –

_“For He whose own hands shaped Durin and his kin,  
Now summons your girl to his side’…”_

Eöl’s voice came from right over the garden wall!

“Tithellon!” exclaimed Bunny, grabbing Lomion’s hand.

Lomion’s heart stalled in his chest for just a moment before he clenched his fists and fumed – he did not cower.

“I don’t want to talk to him!” he growled, and pulled Bunny inside the octagon, shutting and locking the golden flower doors behind him.

“Where will we go, Tithellon?” Bunny asked him. “He always finds us in the end.”

“Maybe,” agreed Lomion, hurrying through the entrance hall, “but there’s a secret passageway under all the big Houses.”

“Out of the city?”

Lomion almost stopped in his tracks.

“We’re not allowed to go out of the city,” he said. “That’s the law.”

“But – “

That time he did stop.

“It’s not allowed!”

Bunny made a disquieted noise, but didn’t protest any further. Lomion reached for the handle to open the door to the main reception when he heard something from behind him.

KNOCK. KNOCK. KNOCK.

“He’s at the door,” observed Bunny.

Rolling his eyes at that statement of the obvious, Lomion sped up to a run, barring the second door and dashing across the patterned floor of the octagonal main hall to the side with the hidden entrance.

Eöl would find him eventually. He always did.

But it took him longer every time.

*~*~*

Celebrimbor’s feeding had been messy, unsurprisingly. Sauron supposed if he’d done it that way from the beginning he might have saved himself the loss of that one thrall – but then, losing the thrall had been the whole point of the exercise. It was not to make Celebrimbor despair, per se.

Well, it was little bit to make him despair. But there were better ways to do that that would have cost him nothing.

No, the point was to engender trust. If only Celebrimbor _had_ trusted him, that taste-tester would not have had to drink the wine his people were so intolerant of, and Celebrimbor would have had a nice meal with which he could regain his strength. Win-win. 

Celebrimbor was in a healing sleep now, the eggs had done enough to give him that strength, and if Sauron had to comment he’d have said his friend was looking better already – save for the blood and bruising about the nostrils.

“Why do you allow the elf such succour?” his servant asked him.

Now, if Sauron had had to comment, he’d have said he heard a hint of impertinence in that question.

He debated whether or not to spend the time and effort punishing the cretin for a moment, before deciding it would have been too irritating to bother. But just so there were no misconceptions between them –

“You can’t let them get too used to pain, thrall. Especially when you still need them alive.”

That had been the problem with Maedhros, in the end. Sauron had bored of torturing him long before the elf’s resolve had weakened, as each new torment seemed to have less effect than the last. Eventually he’d hung him from that cliff so he could get on with other things – though that in itself might have proven to have been more effective than mere pain, if as was said he had indeed begged Fingon to kill him. Sauron had certainly never merited such pleas from Feanor’s eldest.

Of course, the torment of Maedhros was designed to bring him over to their side – or it was in Sauron’s mind anyway, his dearly departed former Master might have just wanted to have some fun – they’d needed no particular knowledge from him and thus had had all the time in the world (harp-playing cousins on giant eagles not withstanding) to wait him out.

Which was not to say it hadn’t been a little fun, in the beginning. Let it never be said Sauron didn’t enjoy seeing the proud brought low.

As he remembered he turned his head to Celebrimbor’s sleeping visage again – looking better than before, as he’d said, but still clearly wasting. Thin, scarred and naked – Sauron found once again that this sight was one he didn’t particularly enjoy.

_Keeping the subject naked encourages feelings of fear and vulnerability_ , he hardly had to tell himself, after so long doing this kind of work, _but it’s not as if it’s going to make a difference with this one, is it? What would be the harm in giving him a shirt and leggings_?

Then –

_Ridiculous. You cannot possibly be thinking this._

Then again, would a single kindly gesture not have gone some way to make the elf more trusting?

_No, it would be seen as a cheap manipulation and laughed at. Leave the fool to freeze like that, if he will not capitulate. Why would you have sympathy for something so beneath you? You never did before._

Not for Maedhros, certainly. Nor for any of those squalling test subjects; elf, man or dwarf that had come before or after. Not for Lomion – not really, at _that_ time he had been reluctant because he’d known it would change himself to do what he’d been ordered to do. But then, he hadn’t really ever ‘tortured’ Lomion. He hadn’t had to, that was the point of the marriage.

That marriage. Tomorrow he would have to go back to the wood and face Lomion again – unless by some miracle Celebrimbor capitulated tonight – and the thought of it unsettled him greatly.

_“Do you love him?”_

In the beginning he could have banished him with a thought. Now, if he were to try and use the full force of his mental strength to compel Lomion to leave… would even that be enough? It seemed to him that working more subtly was the way to proceed, but maybe he didn’t have the time to tread so carefully.

_Celebrimbor is strong,_ he told himself. _He will last a long time. Think of how long you kept his uncle, after all. The fires of Feanor tend to burn despite all attempts to snuff them out._

His eyes wandered back to the sleeping Celebrimbor and he frowned. The body was wasting but the eyes, still open, smoky grey, they looked somehow…

… peaceful.

How could he be peaceful now after what his condition had been when Sauron had last left him? What peace could an elf whose failure had brought about the fall of a city, whose love was lost to him forever and who languished in agony in his enemy’s dungeon find?

Sauron’s finger began tapping with irritation.

“Leave us,” he ordered his servant suddenly. “We are not to be disturbed unless there is word on the movements of our enemies.”

“As you command, my master,” said the thrall, and swept out the doorway.

Sauron passed through into the cell proper as soon as it was gone, passed the dark day-glass with its trickling black sand and sauntered over to the sleeping elf’s side, bending over him. Celebrimbor didn’t react to the shadow that passed over his body; he was dreaming. Lightly, Sauron reached out with his mind to the other elf.

It was far easier for him to enter the mind when it was unguarded in sleep, but – as the little world of Lomion’s he’d visited recently demonstrated – dreams could be tricky to navigate. Finding information he wanted within them was nigh on impossible, because exerting any kind of force to push the subject’s mind towards such information invariably caused them to wake up.

This in mind, he should certainly have gone back to the construction of the second, much sturdier raiment for his next visit to the Gondolin-that-never-was-nor-would-be, instead of wasting time on this. Entering Celebrimbor’s dream would almost certainly prove fruitless.

He might have even seen something he’d have rather not.

But…

But. He closed his eyes and slipped a little further away from the room his physical presence inhabited – a little further in to the place Celebrimbor was seeing now.

The sound was fuzzy and far-off, but he could hear the taps of hammer and chisel, the clicks of heavy footsteps on stone, the hum of low voices and the distant echoes of all these things happening within a room of tall stone…

_Oh, tell me he isn’t –_

Sauron peered through the walls between their minds and of course, where else would Celebrimbor go but Hodrodhond, with its high ceilings and multitude of bearded vermin? And look – there was Narvi himself, stuffing his unpleasant face on a raised dais in the canteen of his workshop with the rabble, rather than entertaining his elven prince within the dining hall of his own house. It was a memory made into a dream, the faces of the other dwarves in the room only half-there once you moved further away from the centre.

Collecting the edges of the dream into the image of the form he’d had nearest to this time, Sauron became Annatar for a moment and sidled up a short distance from the happy couple.

Though, they never had shown their affection in public.

“I missed this place,” Celebrimbor was saying, sighing. He was leant back against the wall with his arms spread, looking like an elegant willow tree next sat next to a bearded boulder.

The boulder only snorted, and tore a crust away from his bread to dip in the broth.

“You don’t believe me?” Celebrimbor wondered lightly.

“Only thinking of everything you were complaining about last time you were here.”

Celebrimbor rolled his eyes. “You dwarves. You fixate on the most ridiculous things.”

“No moon, no stars, no sunlight for you to sing your silly songs to.”

“Why would I complain about that, with the diamonds that shine just as brightly down here?”

“No wind, ventilation not good enough, too much smoke from the furnaces.”

“Did I say something like that? I think I remember saying how nice and warm it was compared to my draughty tower in Eregion.”

“None of your blasted trees and your little crawling animal friends to sing with.”

“I can sing with you dwarves if I feel like singing.”

“We’re just about as good as birds and trees, are we?”

“And cicadas too.”

“Mahal’s beard – what fool let this elf past the front gate?”

“Oh, they tried their hardest to keep me out, Lord Narvi, but in their valiant efforts they had forgotten one, crucial detail…”

“That you built them?”

“Exactly.”

“Well, since we don’t want to go to the trouble of having to build a whole new set…”

“I can stay? You are too kind, my lord.”

This banal excuse for banter irked Sauron far more than it should have somehow, sending the urge to interrupt piercing through him. The image of Narvi here looked old enough that he should have met ‘Annatar’ already, and not be perplexed by his presence, but to find the right moment to draw Celebrimbor’s attention away from his absurd ghost without making the situation too jarring…

Narvi barked a laugh out. “Ha. That’s me, all right. ‘Narvi the Kind’.”

“Surely how you’ll be remembered in your people’s history. I can see it now – all the detailed illustrations of the great Narvi, handing sweeties out to all the little dwarflings and petting the heads of bunny-rabbits.”

“Yes, if I was about to snap their necks and make a stew of them.”

“You eat dwarfling stew? How horrible.”

“Not the – !” the phantom stopped itself and raised an index finger in the air, scowling and fighting a smile at the same time at the elf beside him and then shaking his head.

Celebrimbor just laughed. “Ha! I got you that time!”

“For once,” Narvi allowed, gruffly.

“True, true. We shall have an annual celebration hereafter to mark the occasion of my triumph.”

“Great Maker.” The dwarf took a swig from his tankard. “But moving on from fooling, if you can for more than a minute, was that all a joke with the gatekeeper trying to keep you out or did that idiot make things difficult for you again on your way in?”

“Hmm.”

Sauron watched as Narvi took an angry deep breath. He had known all too well that elements of both their peoples had discouraged – even detested their friendship, and that was without knowing the full extent of it. Celebrimbor only laughed at Narvi again and tapped his arm with the back of his hand.

“It’s nothing too serious. Our good friend Rugni claiming ‘no one told him’ I was arriving – “

“The lying little worm!”

“ – and saying he really should have myself and retinue searched before we entered, though I don’t know what he might have expected to find. As the helpful sort of chap I am I naturally began to strip off for him – “

Narvi spat his ale back into its tankard abruptly.

“ – whereupon he covered his eyes at my hideous elven flesh and bade me go right through.”

“And I should have those eyes on my anvil come the evening!”

“If you weren’t such a kind soul,” agreed Celebrimbor. “But it doesn’t matter. I know how petty people of any race can be.”

“Mm, and think you also know how behaviour that reflects poorly on any race ought to be rebuked.”

Celebrimbor had a more serious look on his face when he turned to meet Narvi’s eyes then. Sauron wondered if this was exactly how the conversation had played out years ago – he felt it might have been, because at that point a serving-dwarf with a tureen of stew approached their table with a very courtly bow, at which Narvi – a comparatively low-born dwarf, originally – rolled his eyes.

Ah. Now, this might have been an opportunity. Sauron saw the shape of the dream inside the dish and with a little effort, tweaked it.

“Would my Lords like a second helping?” asked the servant.

He uncovered the tureen. Celebrimbor leant over and froze.

Looking at the raw egg mix swimming in the bowl.

After saying nothing, he leant back against the wall again. Narvi frowned at him.

“What’s the matter?”

Again, Celebrimbor said nothing. Sauron cautiously took a step closer to the table.

“You should eat something, my friend,” he suggested. “You need to keep your strength up.”

Celebrimbor’s fist clenched on the table.

“Go away,” he muttered.

Sauron sighed. “I really am only trying to help,” he said.

“You’re not. You’re a liar.”

Narvi’s eyes narrowed with suspicion, but they never focused on Annatar – likely because he had never actually been there.

“You and the maia have fallen out, then?”

A bitter laugh answered him. “You could say that.”

The dwarf paused; then very slowly, and carefully, he put his hand on the elf’s forearm and said with all due weight: “You be careful about that, won’t you?”

“Oh, I’m never careful,” said Celebrimbor ruefully. “It’s how my father’s blood shows through in me.”

Narvi sighed. “I don’t know why I bother. And you can take that away, youngster – it’s little wonder our guests aren’t tempted when you try to serve their dinner from a decorative vase.”

As Celebrimbor stifled a loud laugh the young server shrunk back, carting away the – admittedly hideous – tureen, which as Sauron recalled had been done in a brief fashion of the time, wrought with three-dimensional flower decorations. Not poorly made, but more than a little ostentatious for silverware. Narvi’s lack of diplomacy in the matter reminded him a little of –

“Don’t laugh,” chided the dwarf gruffly, smacking Celebrimbor’s arm with the back of his hand. “I’m not funny.”

Celebrimbor turned away so he could laugh more. Now Sauron was the one with the urge to clench his fists.

_Why do you titter so for him, precious? He’s just an ugly, stunted mistake of a foolish entity’s vainglory. He isn’t worth the laughter of an elven prince._

_He isn’t even really there. I could make him vanish with a wave of my hand._

Sauron imagined holding the sword in his hand, slicing the dwarf’s useless head off with that wave, even though it would end the dream. It wasn’t as though he was getting any use out of this dream. He’d known that before he’d gone in. But to make Celebrimbor watch his already-dead lover die again, and violently, might have justified the whole thing –

_Why should I need a justification though? Can’t I do what I like in my own kingdom?_

He thought again of the obnoxiously buzzing skeleton of Gondolin’s great market in Lomion’s own little kingdom of dreams. This feeling…

Suddenly, Celebrimbor flinched and brought the tips of his fingers to his brow, like a sudden headache had come over him, and as elves were not prone to such afflictions Sauron reigned in his emotions, fearing they might have caused the sensation. The elf’s eyes remained shut, and he dropped his head down onto the dwarf’s.

Now, that kind of display had almost certainly not happened in reality.

“Sing something for me, my beloved,” asked Celebrimbor.

Rather than take issue with the sudden change in behaviour from his partner, Narvi’s eyes flickered up towards him and he responded. “Oh? What shall I sing? I’m afraid I don’t know any traditional cicada shanties.”

Celebrimbor smiled. “Something dwarvish.”

“Or I could sing for you, Tyelpe,” Sauron offered, fingers of his physical body curling back outside the dream world. “I know the songs they sing back in the land of your birth. The songs your mother and father sang.”

“No,” said Celebrimbor, turning his head further into Narvi’s shoulder. “No mother or father-songs. Not anymore. Narvi, please – I only want a song from you.”

Sauron twisted the dream so that a sharp serrated dagger appeared in his hand, while the image of Narvi sighed with fond exasperation and nodded towards someone on the other side of the room, unseen. He could have grabbed him by the beard and sawn his head off then and there, or thrust his fingers in his eye-sockets to hold him in place and sliced him open from the belly up to the neck, and it was only because he couldn’t decide which would be better that events proceeded as they did.

The slow beat of a heavy drum started in the corner, momentarily distracting Sauron. As he shook that off and approached the head table, a lute was strummed gently, and just when his shadow had fallen over the couple a simple, slow tune was started on a wooden flute.

Celebrimbor’s eyes were still closed, yet he frowned, and Sauron hesitated again. It was in that moment that Narvi began to sing.

“ _There once was a lady of Blacklock Clan_.”

The words were slow, and seemed sad. Not really the style Annatar had heard within these halls outside of funeral dirges, and Celebrimbor’s frown remained.

Then the other dwarves in the hall began to beat their utensils against the tables in unison with every second beat of the booming drum. Like they were footsteps coming up behind him, Sauron turned and observed the suddenly solemn-looking group with a feeling of unease. They all chorused –

“ _Her name in the deep-walls is hewn_.”

And Narvi sang:

“ _Sing, all – of the Lady of Blacklock Clan.”_

_“ – and the tresses than shone like the moon_.”

As slowly as the song, Celebrimbor lifted his head away from the dwarf, eyes opening little by little. He gave Narvi a questioning glance and then turned his head to the dwarves banging their cups and knives on the hard wood.

“I do not know this song…” he muttered.

His gaze fell on Sauron almost immediately afterward, and this time, he seemed to really see him.

“ _The sole child she was of a maker of swords_ ,” Narvi went on, by all account totally oblivious to this sudden, eerie change in the atmosphere.

“ _The finest of blades he had wrought_ ,” continued the others.

Celebrimbor looked from side to side again and abruptly shot up from the table, stumbling back and looking in all directions.

“I’ve never heard this song before!” he exclaimed.

Sauron made a thoughtless mistake, and said, “Tyelpe…”

… which served to centre the elf’s eyes squarely on his own.

“ _One day a fine stranger brought word to his forge,”_

“You,” accused Celebrimbor.

_“That his daughter the Maker had sought.”_

“You’re doing this.”

The flames of anger kindled in his eyes as fast and ferociously as they ever had within his grandfather’s, and Sauron was momentarily lost for words because –

Well.

He wasn’t doing this, that was the thing.

He’d never heard this song before either.

“Get out of my head,” Celebrimbor demanded, staggering away from the table.

“ _The mark of the Maker this messenger bore,”_

“Get out of my mind!”

“My friend…”

“Get out! Get out! GetoutgetoutgetoutgetoutGET OUT!”

The song, the surroundings, and the memory in general all abruptly ceased to be, and Celebrimbor disappeared with them, waking up in the real world with a start and a groan.

Through an open eye Sauron saw him shudder back to reality, struggling to regain his bearings as he moaned in pain and anger, but he kept one eye on what was left of that dreamworld because a small way off from where he stood in what should have been an empty void, he saw a little shadow.

A little shadow of a mangled toy rabbit.

“ _Hello, Mairon_ ,” said the shadow. “ _Can we hide here for a little while? Tithellon’s Ada is trying to find us again.”_

Sauron left at once, to focus back on the here and now and not – he told himself – in fright.

Though a deep sense of dread lingered as far back in his mind as he could stand to push it.

_No more mind games for now_ , he thought, stepping half a step back from Celebrimbor, who now spat and hurled curses at him like someone who’d been brought to him at full-strength.

_Not without precautions. Not if_ he _has that much access to mine._

If Lomion were able to make contact with Celebrimbor using him as a bridge, things would be…

Would be…

“Monster! You thrice-damned traitorous thrall of Morgoth, how dare you try to shape my mind to your will! How dare you use Narvi like that, you murderous wretch – you won’t succeed! I swear by Eru Illuvatar and all the Valar, and every innocent soul you condemned to torment and death you’ll never make me believe your lies!”

Now that he thought about it, if Lomion and Celebrimbor were to meet, it would prove to the latter everything Sauron had said about being able to control an elf through a forced bond.

Celebrimbor would then know for a fact he had the choice of giving Sauron the locations of the three rings willingly, or having the choice taken from him and suffering an even worse – an unimaginably worse fate. No one would be saved either way except himself. And he didn’t think Celebrimbor – soft touch at heart that he was – would have had what it took to try and convince Lomion to remain bound to Sauron and spare himself that way.

No, bleeding-heart Tyelpe felt worse than any his father and uncles’ betrayals of their own family; first at Losgar, then at Nargothrond, then again at Sirion – the only scion of Feanor left this side of the sea to feel the glares of other elves on the back of his neck and pretend he didn’t know what they whispered. How could he look into those dark, dark eyes and tell Lomion he must remain, just like that deranged dark-elf still did, insisting his son was not wanted across the sea? Tell him he would send help?

There was no guarantee the Valar would do anything. In fact, knowing their philosophy, there was as much reason to believe they wouldn’t – once they recognised that Lomion was now acting under his own free will, even if he hadn’t been in the past. He’d have to choose to depart of his own free will as well, Sauron could hear them saying.

Free will. As if any elf had that. As if anyone at all had that.

“You soulless monster. I’ll _never_ give in.”

And yet, despite all this; Sauron felt very deeply, so deeply that the feeling in his heart somehow overpowered the thoughts in his head, that Lomion and Celebrimbor should not meet. Not even to sway Celebrimbor’s mind.

He didn’t know why. Some sort of premonition, perhaps, though he wasn’t often prone to seeing what was yet to come. Something he hadn’t thought of consciously that might follow on from that event, if it was allowed to occur. That seemed the most logical.

But when he pictured in his mind the look on Celebrimbor’s face, when he saw what had been done to his cousin at Sauron’s hands…

_“It wasn’t me,”_ he imagined saying. _“Melkor ordered me to do it. Do you suppose I could have refused? I tried to talking him out of it, but…”_

And yet, why should he have thought to say such a thing in this imagining?

It wasn’t as though he needed to justify such a thing.

It wasn’t as though he was _ashamed._

*~*~*~*~*

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And now, the moment you've all been waiting for - the special extra piece for this chapter written by my dear co-writer............... my office cat!
> 
> Miggy: 6t55555555555576 bn hnnnnjhbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbgv
> 
> ioooooooooooooooooooooooooooo89njmhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh34343434343434343434343434343434343434343434343434343434bjuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuu
> 
> Hope you enjoyed that. In the next chapter, Celebrimbor talks with his dead husband some more, and Sauron... also talks with his own dead husband some more. They have so much in common - I wonder why they don't get along better...


	5. Night Forty-Three

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello, all! Hope everyone reading this is still alive - now for the next chapter!
> 
> N.B.: As it's been asked in the comments I thought I'd mention: when Bunny calls Maeglin 'Tithellon', it's supposed to be a kind of childish mash-up of the Sindar for 'small' and 'friend'; i.e., in the time before Maeglin was allowed the luxury of an actual name, back when he was alive and Bunny was an actual stuffed rabbit toy and not a creation of his mind, he would imagine Bunny referring to him simply as 'little friend' when he was playing with him.
> 
> (speaking of comments, a big thank you for all who leave them, kudos, or simply spent time reading this)

One.

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The repulsive glass was turned over and over, the band along the top scraping against the edge as it was fitted around the number eight. The sands of time continued to fall away.

_Twenty-two days left,_ thought Celebrimbor. _Then I call his bluff. He cannot marry me by force. It couldn’t be true. Wasn’t he trying to influence my mind through my dreams? He knows no one could ever believe such lies otherwise. So much for being a great deceiver, Gorthaur – a child wouldn’t have believed that one._

Sauron had returned to less civil tactics than a fancy dinner spread to try and break his spirit in the meantime. He affected nonchalance whenever Celebrimbor declared his resolution – which he tried to do as often as he could – but Celebrimbor thought he sensed a growing disquiet beneath the mask. In fact, he was almost certain of it.

_The hourglass was a mistake, on his part,_ he thought. _A count-down to his humiliation, not my ruining._

What would he have expected though? He’d had Maedhros in his power for years. Did he really expect to break a Feanorion in two months?

The strangest thing was that it was the times when Sauron was not with him that he was finding the most difficult to bear. Right now, all he could focus on was the trickle of sand in the hourglass. They seemed unnaturally slow, every little grain falling, pip-pip-pip-pip-pip – louder to his ears than it should have been too, like coins being poured into a metal chest.

He was fading in and out of being able to feel the tiredness and pain of unused muscles in his body, presently. As for sight, all he could see in the here and now were flickering lights in the darkness. Sauron had set him up strapped to the same table, tilted it head-end down so the blood fell there and pressed against the inside of his skull. Above and around him, a complicated, wicked-looking contraption he had had his servants wind a huge handle to operate. Pieces of the machine surrounded him on all sides, and above him – where an enormous, evil needle was suspended above his head.

Gears had clicked into place, metal had groaned and liquid flowed through pipes and tubes above his head but in the end all the contraption did was slowly, slowly, slowly release one drop of salted water after another.

Into his open eyes.

An attachment fixed to his head placed hooks beneath his eyelids and held them open. The drops were funny things, at first stinging horribly, then allowing Celebrimbor to get used to their pinprick-ing, then causing him all new levels of pain in their relentlessness.

Sauron had turned the machine on four days ago, by the count of the hourglass, and not been back since. Each click of the iron frame onto a new number of days and Celebrimbor’s vision went darker. Now, all he could see were sparkles in the dark.

_Does he intend to blind me permanently?_ – he wondered. _No. I’m sure elven eyes could heal from this unless they were eaten away entirely._

_But mine will probably never get the chance to._

Maybe he had seen for the last time. It shouldn’t have caused him any distress when he was so sure he would be dead soon anyway, and yet how could he work like this?!

No matter how many times he told himself he was past worrying about such things, the fear remained. He told himself over and over that the blindness was reversible and even if it hadn’t been he would die soon. He would never make anything again anyway, or at least not until Mandos allowed him to re-enter the world of the living.

If he ever did. If the Doom was ever lifted.

Still, this fear remained. _I have made all I will ever make, and this is all that is left._

_This prison._

_This_ nothing.

And that feeling of interminability was worse, far worse, than pain.

Pip-pip-pip-pip-pip-pip-pip-pip-pip

Though it had to be said, the pain didn’t help matters. When another drop landed on his opened eyes it didn’t hurt, not exactly, though he felt a slight impact. The lights he saw in the darkness shook and blurred away, and only as they began to sharpen into little pinpricks again did his eyes sting, and keep stinging, like there was an open flame held against them.

_And this is it for me now,_ he thought. He knew he shouldn’t. He knew Sauron knew what he was doing, obviously – that this was what he wanted him to be thinking and feeling in the hopes of making him give in, but the worst thing, the very worst thing about it all was that lying there in the darkness he had begun to wonder what would happen if he _did_ agree to give Sauron the names.

It wasn’t that he was considering actually doing it, he told himself, but maybe… maybe his kin knowing he was caught would have prepared for such an eventuality already (it was probably a foolish thing to think they trusted him), and maybe if he convinced Sauron to give him a measure of freedom he could work from within…

But then, it had been proven quite conclusively that Celebrimbor was an idiot, so trying to go down that route was certain to end in failure, wasn’t it?

… an idiot…

_“Is it our fault, if the Lord of Nargothrond was idiotic enough to walk straight into Moringotto’s lair?”_

_“Blessed Elbereth – you’re talking about your own cousin, Father!”_

_“Blessed who, Tyelpe?”_

Curufin had hated having to speak Sindarin and use Sindar names enough in public. He had refused to do it in private and scolded his son if he ever did likewise.

But Celebrimbor had spent far more of his life in Beleriand than he had in Aman at that point.

_“Really? That’s what you’re going to focus on?”_

Celebrimbor’s heart stuttered a little in his dark prison. Finrod Felagund – now there was someone who he would think had faced down Sauron’s captivity with spirit. The stories said so, at any rate. Someone who _trusted_ … the elves who had come east during the War of Wrath had said he had already been returned to life, so maybe he had been right to – to an extent.

However, the circumstances surrounding all that still left a bitterness in the back of his throat that prevented him from trying to take inspiration. Only once after his father had been thrown out of Nargothrond had they met with each other – after Nargothrond had fallen and Curufin had come running to make sure his son had escaped the slaughter – and there had been a moment, maybe a single moment, when Celebrimbor had thought a reconciliation just might be possible.

Then Curufin had spoken of what a fool Orodreth and his half Sindar ‘dark-elf brat’ were, and so soon after the news of Finduilas’ death as it was Celebrimbor had told his father never to come near him again.

… better to think on Maedhros, who endured this same kind of prison for so long, he thought. Although, who would know if he’d given Them some kind of information? They weren’t after information that time. _I never asked him about what happened during those years. I never dared ask much of him at all after that._

And then, with a flicker of memory that came abruptly to his mind, his imagination conjured up another message from his remembered love.

“If you’re trying to think of endurance, think of a dwarf, you fool. Through me you’re kin to more of a few of them, and some of us have seen the inside of the Enemy’s cells, haven’t we? Why, Telchar himself was captured once – and we all know I’m descended from him.”

Celebrimbor half-smiled, even as another drop landed on his brow and ran its salt into the grooves of his eyelids, around the metal hooks pulling them back. Narvi was, in fact, not descended from Telchar – who had had no descendants – but saying a dwarf was ‘descended from Telchar’ was an admonishment in Hodrodhond; to those who were thought to ‘reach above their station’

Narvi, of course, had been called so many times by prigs and rivals.

“Don’t laugh,” the conjuring rebuked.

“I’m not,” whispered Celebrimbor. “You’re not at all funny, unlike me.”

“Hmph, right. A laugh a minute, you are. Do you remember the story I told you, of Telchar’s capture and escape?”

“Mm.” The history of the Children of Aule was little known among the elves, and less cared for – outside of Eregion. When Narvi had deigned to give him a scrap of it Celebrimbor had treasured it beyond gems; drawn cartoons for him of this event or that to see his invariable harrumphing laugh.

Celebrimbor remembered this story, but he let Narvi be the one to retell it.

“In the early days of your people’s coming to these shores a fair number of ours still wished to find a route through to the west without having to first go through your exalted uncle’s halls; since it’s said he treated us fairly enough, but never for any love of us.”

That described Caranthir well enough, Celebrimbor thought.

“It came to pass that some brave fool thought a northern route might save more time than a southern, and this fool was Eranchar, cousin and blood-brother of the great Telchar. Now, Telchar may have had a better head on him, but he was also a bit of a soft touch – so they say – and he was resolved to accompany Eranchar on this quest, even against his better judgement.”

As Celebrimbor recalled, trying to find safe northern routes from west to east at that time had been something of a craze – for a brief time, before it was realised how dangerous it really was. It made sense those in the east had been equally keen on finding a way west.

“With them were twelve others, whose names I won’t bore you with – “

_You’ve forgotten them, you mean_ , thought Celebrimbor as he hid his smile.

“ – but for Dorchar and Drorchar, Eranchar’s sons, who were boys barely of age. And they came up as far as the Ered Luin, and almost at your other uncles’ lairs before they were surprised in the night, and Eranchar slain. The other thirteen were taken as captives to the nearest pit to work the forges of the Enemy. Now, Dorchar and Drorchar argued they should never do any work for the Enemy and fight on to the death, but Telchar – feeling responsible for the lads and being the cunning sort – had a different plan.”

_Would that I could have had some of that cunning._

“He agreed to work the forges of the Enemy in exchange for the lives of himself and his companions. The dwarves were put to work in brutal conditions; a little half-rotten food to keep them going and a lash to the back every now and then to keep them motivated. But they endured, as our people always do, and using the folding technique Telchar had discovered years before they were able to make finer quality armour for the orcs than they had seen before from their poor-quality steel.”

“With hidden faults and weaknesses, I suppose?” Celebrimbor had cut in, when he had first heard Narvi tell the story.

“No – that’s what Dorchar and Drorchar thought their cousin’s plan was, but he was more cunning than that. He had them make that armour with the pique of their skill, right down to the decoration. Now, this was before the dawn of Men, or before any good number of them came that far west, so all the fellow prisoners of the dwarves were elves, whose conditions were even worse than those of the dwarves.”

“Since we are not as strong as dwarves,” Celebrimbor mouthed.

“Well,” Narvi would have said, had he been there. “Some of you aren’t so bad. I’ve known a few who were all right when it came down to it.”

“Really?” Celebrimbor would have answered. “What are their names?”

“Tree-hugger and Sings-at-Stars, probably,” said Narvi gruffly. “There was one working with Telchar, in the forges of Morgoth; a shadowy figure who would appear again in other tales of the great smith.”

“And what did they call him?” asked Celebrimbor, pretending Narvi hadn’t already spoiled the ending of the story.

“ ‘The Elf’,” Narvi replied, rolling his eyes. “He’d been there since before your people had come – dwelling in the parts your own father claimed, so they say. And Telchar recognised that this elf was not only strong, but also had a talent for the forge. So he told the orc in charge – who was a dullard even as orcs go – he needed this elf’s help to replace the slain Eranchar, and the orc agreed. In reality Telchar needed the elf for information, since he had been there so long and tried to escape himself so often that he knew the fortress like the back of his hand, down to where the foreman kept his own secret stash of gems he’d skimmed from what they’d pillaged that was meant to be sent on to Angband as tribute.”

Another drop landed in Celebrimbor’s eyes, and the image of Narvi blurred, even though it was only in his mind.

_What happened next?_ he asked himself. _Come on – forget the water, what happened next!?_

Narvi’s voice fell away to indistinguishable noise for a few moments, then continued. “The dwarves taught him Iglishmek so that he might pass them messages without the orcs knowing about it. Passing messages, you see, was the whole point of the thing because as soon as the dwarves sent out to look for their missing kin ran into a band of orcs wearing Telchar’s armour, they were more than a little surprised to see a long line of runes hiding in the decoration saying ‘we’re being held captive, come get us’, along with directions to the fortress, enemy numbers and even a hidden map!”

The first time he’d heard this, Celebrimbor had laughed, but now he found he could only smile a little for Telchar’s sake, and that of the other prisoners of that dark fortress.

“The siege of that stronghold didn’t last very long, let me tell you!” Narvi exclaimed. “And wasn’t that foreman surprised when the captive dwarves who’d up ‘til then been so meek and co-operative suddenly drove an axe into his skull!”

“They were all rescued then?”

“All of them – even the Elf, and his kin who had also been taken prisoner. Not to mention their liberating a small mountain of treasure for more deserving hands to hold.”

“Mm, that was the best bit,” Celebrimbor remembered saying.

Back then, Narvi had elbowed him and claimed there’d be no more of his people’s history revealed to an elf who wouldn’t take it seriously. That resolve had lasted almost a month, even.

Now, when he thought of Barad-Dur besieged and overthrown, the victorious elves or men – or even dwarves – flooding its halls and dark chambers to reclaim what the Enemy had stolen from them, and all he could think about was their coming across the rings.

He flinched as another drop hit his face. Every single one of those shining bands ought to have been thrown ten times further out of reach than the silmarils had ended up, and yet he could feel in his heart that that was not what was going to happen.

And this ‘One Ring’… this ring that might control all others… this notion filled him with particular dread.

Telchar must have been so sure his plan would work, he thought; must have had enough ‘trust’ in his kin to put ten elves to shame, to risk his honour by making armour for the Enemy. If Celebrimbor had the strength to endure this, he nonetheless could not have made his own way out. Not now.

Pip-pip-pip-pip-pip-pip-pip-pip-pip-pip

“You’re a fool,” Narvi told him, in his head. “Who can say what was going through Telchar’s mind at that time, eh?”

“You think I should hold on to some hope?” Celebrimbor imagined asking him, lips almost mouthing the words. “Even if my family knows I’m here, how could they get to me? And moreover, why risk the lives of the thousands it would take to storm this place for my sake? I’m not going to break beneath Annatar’s torture or his lies, but that’s all I can hope for.”

“You won’t even try anything else? Worried he’ll kill more, to get to you? Or that he’ll trick you some other way? Is that what you’re afraid of?”

Celebrimbor sighed. Another splash of water on his eyes and the twinkling lights faded out entirely.

_I’m worried_ , he said to himself _, that even though the Narvi in my mind says the things Narvi would have said…_

_After that monster forced his way into my dream._

_After he put a song Narvi never sang into Narvi’s mouth._

_… is this imagination mine? Or is it more of him, trying to make me think there is a way out when the way only leads further in?_

“So you don’t think I’m ‘me’, is that it?” Narvi asked him curiously.

“Obviously you’re not the real you. But do you come from me, or someone else?”

Narvi paused to consider this. “They say we mortals live on in the hearts of those who knew us when we’re gone. If this is your heart speaking to you, then I’m as real as I ever was.”

“But is this my heart speaking to me?” asked Celebrimbor.

“I suppose you’ll just have to trust that it is.”

*~*~*~*

When Sauron brought his new raiment into the hollow of the dark tree, and through it brought his mind into the city that was hidden there, Lomion came to meet him at the gate.

He was smaller now, smaller than he’d been before to Sauron’s mind’s eye – appearing as a young adolescent, with that ridiculous rabbit following at his heel. This was, he supposed, a reflection of how Lomion felt right now, and a part of him was curious as to why.

Oh – he had a good idea of why. But he wasn’t certain, and it wasn’t the reason he was there.

“Beloved…” he greeted, affectionately. “You came all the way out here so you could meet me at the gates?”

Lomion, holding a thread-bound sketchbook tightly to his chest, nodded.

Sauron tilted is head towards him slightly. “… is there a special reason why?”

There was a pause. Lomion and the rabbit exchanged a look. It was the latter who walked forward.

“We’re sorry if we scared you last time, Mairon.”

“… scared me?”

“We went to you to hide from Tithellon’s Ada. Tithellon’s Ada was chasing us. But you ran away as soon as we got there. So we’re very sorry.”

In Barad-Dur, Sauron’s fingers twitch with annoyance that they – that he, rather – had thought he’d scared him. But in the city of dreams he only smiled.

“There’s no need to be sorry for that, precious. Did Eöl find you in the end then?”

Lomion nodded.

“I had a feeling he would. I’m sorry I couldn’t chase him away for you – was he very horrid to you?”

This time Lomion had a strange expression, like he didn’t know whether to answer ‘yes’ or ‘no’. Like he didn’t know if the answer _was_ ‘yes’ or ‘no’.

“Well, I’m here now,” Sauron told him, brushing a lock of black hair behind the elf’s pale ear. A tinge of pink appeared in his pale cheeks. “So for now at least there’s nothing to worry about. Shall we go up to the palace?”

Lomion nodded a third time, and turned around to lead the way through the seven black gates that built up towards his sanctuary. Sauron found the distortion of the space as it bent to bring them closer to the city faster than they were actually travelling a little unnerving, and he tried to focus on Lomion as they walked. Lomion, however, was in a shy mood, and said nothing for most of the journey.

Not so the rabbit, who stumbled alongside them trying to keep up, and filling the eerie silence with its even eerier child-like voice.

“Tithellon has been working very hard on your ring, Lord Mairon,” it informed him.

“Oh, yes?”

“We went all around the city, and he got lots of very good ideas from the houses and everything. You’ll like the design of your ring, Mairon, it’s a very good one.”

“Well, I’m glad to hear that,” Sauron replied. “But of course, I would have expected nothing less.”

“It will be much better than anything any other smith could do,” added the rabbit. “It will be the best ring in the whole world!”

“That’s excellent, my lord.”

The conversation paused as one of the gates before them opened – though there was no need, as once again it made no noise. The rabbit recommenced talking as soon as they were ready to walk through.

“Did you see the other smith while you were away, Mairon?”

Sauron held back another flinch. The rabbit was ultimately an extension of Lomion, so it would not have been wise to try to harm it, but speaking about Celebrimbor under these circumstances was not something he wanted to do.

And yet, he had told himself it had to be considered as a possible avenue of progression to his goals. Lomion was on one level aware of what was going on. There was a way to possibly use that to his advantage.

“… yes, I did as a matter of fact.”

Lomion’s head turned slightly towards him, then back. The rabbit asked:

“Did you tell him you were going to get Tithellon to design a ring for you, instead of him?”

Carefully, carefully, Sauron told himself. This sounded like Lomion’s bratty side coming to light, but it might have been a more calculated enquiry.

“Ah, I’m afraid I would rather not put my spouse in that position. Celebrimbor may never have taken part in any kinslaying, but he still carries that Feanorion temper – and that tends to come down particularly hard on descendants of Fingolfin.”

“Oh,” said the rabbit.

There was a pause.

“When we saw him, he was with some dwarves. Tithellon likes dwarves – they showed him lots of interesting things when he went to see them.”

“… yes, Celebrimbor does have a few stunted friends.”

Lomion turned his head again, more sharply, and his look lingered before turning back. Sauron had known insulting the Children of Aule would not have been looked on favourably by the son of Eöl, but right now he despised Narvi too much to care.

“They were singing the same song Tithellon’s Ada like to sing. Maybe they know him too – he has lots of dwarf friends.”

“Hm, I doubt it,” muttered Sauron. “My dear father-in-law passed – “ he almost said ‘passed on before these dwarves’ grandfathers were born’ before he caught himself. “ – through the halls of Nogrod mostly, and Belegost. Those you saw were of Hodrodhond.”

It was not that Lomion didn’t know he was dead. Himself, his father – even others who had been in Gondolin during the fall. Not exactly. It just didn’t do to draw attention to it, was the thing. He didn’t want his husband getting upset.

Or thinking too hard about his situation.

Lomion was not entirely reconstructed to what he had once been. Sauron knew what was most likely to be missing – what he had tried the hardest to delete during that time – and honestly he doubted those parts could ever be restored on this side of the sea after what he went through to banish them while Lomion lived, but the thing was – it didn’t do to test that theory, if it could be helped.

“We’ve never been to Hodrodhond,” said the rabbit. “It’s very far away – and we can’t leave the city anyway. It’s the law.”

“The king is a wise ruler,” said Sauron. “I’m sure he knows what he’s doing.”

If he achieved nothing else today, he thought, he could at least say he got through that line without laughing.

However, Lomion turned around anyway, saying:

“Don’t insult my uncle, Mairon. You are a guest in his halls, and he already doesn’t like you.”

“I meant no offence,” Sauron assured, bowing his head.

A click of the tongue told him Lomion didn’t believe him but wasn’t going to make anything of it.

_Best to avoid Turgon as a topic too, if it can be helped_ , he thought.

They walked on past the seven gates and up the steep staircases of the city that led to the great white palace; Lomion all but silent the whole way, while the rabbit continued to make inane conversation Sauron was compelled to humour. The sky of this dream-world was overcast, the clouds moving eerily fast over their heads and the light was dim. In the distance Sauron was mildly intrigued to see a scattering of crepuscular rays out over the fields to the northeast – though as with everything else in this place these beams seemed too washed of colour to be of the sun.

He decided not to mention them either.

Nor the large, black bird that swept its way through them a moment later, cawing like the raven it was too big to be.

In that strange sort of dreamlike time that took hours upon hours and yet no time at all, the three had made their way out into the main palace garden, where Gondolin’s rows of colourful flowers, delicate sculptures and gentle ponds teeming with golden fish and gleaming lilies were now home to a tightly cut maze of shoulder-high near-black hedgerow, marked around its four corners with tall, black and white marble obelisks.

Sauron knew why he had been brought here instead of the Workshop. Here was where Idril Celebrindal organised her famous garden shows; where the very latest of a particular craft’s best examples were displayed for the delight of the lords and ladies of Gondolin, twice a year without fail. He remembered watching the festivities through Lomion’s eyes that final time, directing him from piece to piece with the perfect complimentary phrases slipped into his mouth.

The fools. To have their aloof prince suddenly start praising the prints and paintings of all and sundry and to think it only a welcome change of his normally icy heart. If any collection of idiots had ever deserved to burn…

Well, the point was this was the place for grand displays. Lomion must have been particularly proud of what he’d come up with this time. Sauron, knowing Lomion’s style very well, had a feeling he knew what that kind of piece might generally entail.

_Extra complimentary,_ he told himself. _It doesn’t matter if you like the look of it in truth or not, that’s not the point of this exercise._

The maze seemed to grow larger, the longer they were in it. Sauron could see the centre, and the palace behind him, if he raised himself a little – but it was still an uncanny sensation. That, of course, was also to be expected, and they eventually reached their goal of white-tiled patio around a seven-sided plinth. A huge space with a very small main feature.

Lomion paused at the entrance.

“I hope it meets with your expectations,” he muttered.

With a smile, Sauron reached over and petted his hair, leaving him with a kiss on the forehead.

As he walked to the central pillar the air pressure changed, sending that irritating whine between his ears and a shiver down the back of his neck. The ring laid out upon its plinth began to rise slowly up into the air.

Sauron smiled wider when he saw it close.

It was a black metal band, probably polished galvorn, with an elongated curve and no carving, gems or any other kind of decoration whatsoever. It didn’t even seem to have the requested inscription, which was slightly amusing in itself, as well as exasperating – but Sauron knew what to say.

“Oh, my beloved,” he murmured. “Exactly as I expected – the essence of beautiful simplicity. You say you’re not a jeweller, I know, but it remains that I knew exactly who to go to for this commission.”

Creeping towards him, he noticed Lomion’s arms were holding the book he carried much tighter than before, which suggested to Sauron that the elf felt defensive. More defensive than before, that is. He very much hoped his words had come across as sincere.

“You…” Lomion began. “… I… The… About the inscription – did you see… ?”

“You decided to do without it?” Sauron asked.

But Lomion shook his head. Sauron peered again at the band, wondering if he had super-imposed the inscription in black so that it would only show up when tilted toward the light, but the surface shone smooth.

“It’s a surprise!” cried the rabbit, as it stumbled out into the circle.

Sauron’s eyebrows raised to see it was now carrying – precariously – a lighted torch several times longer than itself. He considered admonishing the thing to be careful, as it swayed one way then the other under its burden, but the deep desire to see such a ridiculous entity burned up as it deserved was too great to let him.

Not that that could have happened, of course. Not this time.

He let the rabbit make its way to the centre of the clearing, beside the plinth, where it brandished the torch just long enough to soak the black ring in its flames. There it was held for a long moment – Sauron glanced at Lomion and saw a nervous expression hidden in the slight frown. Something inside him was uneasy too, or uneasier, since he had been feeling it since – well. Since he’d walked back into Lomion’s domain, at any rate.

When he looked back he saw a strange reflection in the galvorn, too light to be that of the orange flames. A hidden secret? He peered harder.

“That should be enough,” Lomion declared. The rabbit pulled the torch back.

But some part of the fire seemed to still be lingering upon the ring. As Sauron’s image’s lips parted in wonder, the solid black surface came alive with Daeronic runes, spelled with a golden light. The inscription he’d asked for – revealed by the fire.

_One ring to rule them all._

_One ring to find them._

_One ring to bring them all…_

“You… you like it, then?” Lomion asked him.

“This…” Sauron muttered, then collected himself. “ – how did you manage this?”

“It’s a dwarven technique,” Lomion explained. “I can show you how to do it. Well, they probably wouldn’t like me showing you, but they showed me because I was Eöl’s son, so it should be all right to show you since we’re married.”

Sauron showed no hint of the cringe that fact threaten to elicit from him, still amazed by the secret of the ring. If this was a technique that could be reproduced, and not just something Lomion had dreamed up in his little dream world... this was the kind of subtlety he himself was the very embodiment of, and far, far better suited to his ring than any gemstone.

No reason for him to be surprised, he told himself. Lomion did not remain thought of as one of Gondolin’s foremost craftsmen for so long on merit of his blood-ties to its king, even with his unusual aesthetic. He wasn’t totally oblivious to a client’s instructions, he was much too professional for that.

“You do like it?” Lomion asked again, a little more confidently.

“It’s better than anything I imagined,” Sauron said, truthfully this time.

Lomion exhaled with relief. “Good,” he said. “I have all of my original drawings here which should explain the techniques you should employ in crafting it, assuming they don’t interfere with what you do to imbue it with power, but if you think it might we can discuss that.” He paused. “You will be crafting it with your own hands, I gather?”

“Of course,” Sauron assured him. “Tell me, the method by which the runes are revealed by fire, is that technique dependent on the use of runes, or might one use Tengwar script in its place?”

Now there was a hint of scowl in Lomion’s eyes. _Here we go,_ thought Sauron.

“It wouldn’t be impossible,” he admitted, “but I would definitely advise against it. You’re trying to fit over eighty characters onto a very small, curved surface – Daeronic runes are not only easier to engrave, they also look better, because their construction is better suited to the space provided – unless you really want a band with the width of a piece of string.”

Sauron nodded, beginning to move around the ring though it was slowly spinning itself.

“I see,” he said. “And what about colour – I do like gold, as you know.”

“Yes, I know that.”

“ – but you know, I also like red. Can we make the letters red instead of gold?”

“… you can,” again, Lomion looked physically pained to say so, “but red on black tends to give people a sinister sensation. Not that you’ve always been against being sinister.” He rolled his eyes. Sauron paused to smile at him. “But my father taught me how to match colours as taught to him by the dwarves – if you want the lettering to stand out, then you want gold on black or red on white, and you won’t be able to get a metal white enough for – “

“I tire of hearing about the ways of dwarves, my dear,” Sauron told him.

This time, he gave Lomion a push, as he recalled doing centuries ago to manipulate him into one move or another. He stopped, and wouldn’t speak of dwarves again so soon Sauron surmised, but the movement of the other’s mind from speech to thinking better of that speech had been stilted, like a crank that had not been turned for years.

What’s more, he had the sense that it had only worked so smoothly because Lomion had not been expecting it. He stumbled, blinking rapidly as he righted himself to standing still again.

_… hasty, perhaps_ , thought Sauron. _I told myself I would be nice today. But then, it may also be prudent to test how far I can still push him._

As Lomion stood there, saying nothing, the rabbit looked nervously from side to side. But in the end it also remained silent, and Sauron reached out and stroked his fingers through Lomion’s dark hair.

“… which is not to say I am not honoured you would share their techniques with me. However, I heard enough of their philosophy in Hodrodhond when I worked there alongside your cousin.”

“The kinslayer?”

“The son of a kinslayer,” Sauron corrected. “But he was more ill-treated there simply for being of the Eldar than among his own for being a scion of Feanor, so I’m afraid my opinion of the Naugrim has deteriorated.”

That one was true, from a certain point of view.

The rabbit hopped over, still holding the torch and forcing Sauron to swerve slightly so he was not hit by the flames.

“But didn’t he marry a dwarf?” it asked.

“Individual variation among a race not withstanding,” Sauron said, waving his hand dismissively. “The majority of them did not approve of Tyelpe’s friendship with his dwarf, and that was thinking it was only a friendship.”

“Tyelpe?” repeated Lomion. Sauron had meant for him to pick that part out. And yet, when he then asked – “Do you love him?” for the second time...

One part of Sauron’s mind urged him answer: _lie!_ – another _tell the truth, the more lies the more difficulty keeping them from contradicting each other_.

He replied “Yes, my dear, I do,” and supposed as far as truth and lies went, it was either one or the other.

Lomion turned away, a troubled look on his face. “I made you the design you asked for,” he protested.

“You made it beautifully,” agreed Sauron. “I do not love the grandson of Feanor because his skills surpass yours in any way, nor because his looks, or social standing, or personability exceeds yours, but as it pertains to love it just happens that as one eye may prefer white robes to black, one heart may find itself drawn to one person over another. It doesn’t mean that black or white is the greater colour. You understand me, don’t you?”

He really hoped he did, because if it was to turn out that Lomion was just as jealous as the histories portrayed him then that would be the kind of irony Sauron only liked to see other people suffer through.

His husband did not turn back. Sauron crept a little closer and put his hands on now even shorter shoulders. The elf looked not older than a man of twelve now.

“You know… ours was not a love match.”

“I know,” said Lomion, finally turning back, “but I always tried my hardest to be the best husband I could for you. I tried even though you _know_ my uncle wouldn’t like it! I made you designs, and I took you into the city, and when you asked me to stay where I was I stayed – because we’re married, and that means we should – we should… I… I…”

Sauron pulled him closer, acutely aware that the grey clouds above were suddenly moving faster.

“Shh, shh, shh,” he told his husband. “It will be all right, I promise.”

_No doubt he’s still stressed from waiting for my reaction to his design_ , Sauron thought. _If I can just get him to calm down so we can discuss it rationally…_

But then, the rabbit dropped the torch and hopped right up to his leg.

“Mairon?” It tugged his coat. “Mairon, are you going to ask Tithellon to leave these shores?”

Everything went very still.

The emotion Sauron felt kindling inside of Lomion now that suggestion had been made almost had him cry out, categorically, that that was untrue. He would never ask Lomion to leave.

“… beloved.”

But that was exactly what he did plan to do, eventually, and if he lied outright now he would lose Lomion’s trust later. This was thin ice, and he made his choice uneasily.

“Beloved, the bond between us was forged on the order of Morgoth, whom neither of us would serve willingly. As long as it remains in place you will never see the people you love, nor have the freedom to find a new love yourself. And it hurts me…”

Lomion’s fingers digging into his back were hurting him, at any rate.

“ – that you have had to be isolated here for so long because of me, and because of Morgoth. You have been all that I could ask for and I only want to do right by you.”

With a deep breath, he pulled back, and cupped his prince’s face. Looked into his intensifying eyes. Held his nerve and wondered why the grip had to be so tight.

“Your mind will never heal from what was done to it,” he said, “if you do not travel across the sea now. I know you’ve been waiting for your uncle to return to the city, or to at least send you instructions, but, Lomion, it will not happen because _he_ is waiting _there_ to hear from you. And what is more, your mother is waiting to hear from you – “

The look in Lomion’s eyes changed, and Sauron knew he’d made a mistake.

“Mother?” he repeated, stepping away from him. “Mother is dead. She isn’t coming back – she’s gone.”

“Sweetheart, that’s not – “

“Mother isn’t coming back,” repeated Lomion, shaking his head. “We have to move on without her now. She made me promise I would do my best to serve the city, so that’s what we have to do.”

“Lomion – “

“Don’t try to trick me, Mairon!” he exclaimed, unusually vehement for him, and especially for this subject. “I know I can’t see my mother again!”

Sauron was perplexed by that more than anything because when he’d still been alive his mother had been an almost guaranteed way to break through to him – and what could have changed out here, what influence was there to – ?

Except the only influence that was out here.

_Badmouthing the wife you murdered to her poor orphaned son, Eöl? How petty._

“Tithellon…” the rabbit said, creeping closer. “I’m sure your Nana – “

“No!” Lomion interrupted. “No, no, no! Why do you always do this?” he hissed at Sauron. “I made you what you wanted, why can you never just accept me as your husband the way I am?!”

The pedestal cracked and shattered, spraying shards of marble at them both. Lomion they went right through but Sauron felt the sting of impact, as the dream began to turn against him, and he held his hands up peaceably while his sleeves fluttered in the whirling winds.

“Uh oh,” said the rabbit.

Thunder bellowed across the sky and beneath the earth. The black vines were slowly growing out, reaching for him. Sauron made the decision that discretion was required.

“I don’t mean to upset you,” he told Lomion gently. “I’ll leave you alone to think about it – but dearest, please. Don’t let your father’s words cloud your judgement. That’s not who you are, and we both know it.”

He withdrew, leaving Lomion in the centre of the storm, clutching his rabbit. Back to the fires of Angband – no, of Barad-dur, why had he thought he’d been in the other place for that short moment?

And he sighed.

Once again, he’d left his raiment in the forest. Well, hopefully the servant would think he was doing this on purpose.

Things could have gone better than that, he considered ruefully. He hadn’t anticipated Eöl would have had this kind of effect. He hadn’t thought Eöl operating on reasoned discourse at all, to be honest, the ghost he’d seen had been a spectre of pure rage. He’d forgotten the memories of Lomion that demonstrated how unpredictable the dark elf could be, and how unaware he was even now of how proximity to the one ghost might have affected the other.

A strong-minded elf could take up to half a millennium to forget themselves, in his experience. Possibly longer, if they had not endured the torments of Morgoth prior, but in that he was not entirely sure. He had made a search or two for the ghosts of Feanor and his sons, imagining that they would be among the first to defy the call of Mandos, and would keep their minds a long time thereafter, but had never found a trace of any one of them, but for empty rumours. The point was, Eöl might easily have remembered his son when the time came for him to join his father at the bottom of that cliff. What happened then, that he could not say.

Maybe he would have tried to puzzle it out further, but thinking on that moment brought uneasy memories to mind.

_I stayed for you…_

_I stayed exactly where you told me to…_

Sauron shuddered. _I should think on more pleasant things. At least I have a workable design for the Ring,_ he thought, musing over the example in that dream world.

The black ring with the hidden words of gold was very ‘Lomion’. And Sauron very much liked the outward plainness that hid something spectacular.

But Celebrimbor was not as pale as Lomion. Black did not suit him so well.

He suited the shining light of purest gold, and the fire of bright, glowing red.

And the swirling lines of Tengwar, that had been perfected by his grandfather.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, I hope you all enjoyed that. In the next chapter, Sauron and Celebrimbor spend some more quality time together, and Eol sings some more of the dumb song it takes me ages to think up passable lyrics for.


	6. Night Fifty

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *Looks at date last updated*  
> *Low whistle*
> 
> Wow. Hope none of my readers have died of old age!
> 
> Anyway, I've had a fanart done for me - I can't figure out how to put it in this chapter, so you'll just have to take my word that it was really awesome! - making this fic officially the best story on A03, so now you can tell your friends that you liked 'Cry Wolf' before it was cool. 
> 
> In this chapter, Sauron and Celebrimbor shake up the usual torture sessions with a long, productive conversation, and Eol continues to be Eol.

In the forest, the singer was singing again.

_“The Mark of the Maker this messenger bore;  
So no doubt there was to the smith;  
Thus with heavy heart and fresh tears on his cheek,  
He summoned his daughter forthwith._

_‘My daughter,’ said he to the raven-haired maid,  
‘Heed ye what this servant will say;  
For He who made Durin’s kin with his own hands,  
Has sent him to call you away.’_

_Now, this Blacklock Lady was stalwart of heart,  
And put her lips to the smith’s head;  
‘Dear Father, if our Maker calls for my aid,  
Then answer Him I will,’ she said.”_

The singer paused there, resting for a moment, and when he next opened his mouth it was not to sing.

_“What are you thinking about, my son?”_

_“What are you thinking of up in your high palace, with your shadows of simpering servants?”_

_“Do you think of the beautiful things you cannot make, because the self-proclaimed wise elves are too blind to see their beauty?”_

_“Do you think of the halls of the Naugrim as they stood when we last saw them together, the songs they sang, the gems they cut? You caught a glimpse of such a place recently, didn’t you?”_

_“Perhaps you think of the one who led you there, and the scion of kinslayers who hosted you? Whatever is going on between them, I wonder? Could it be true love?”_

He chuckled.

_“No, you’re thinking of your exalted mother again, and the chains she bound you in.”_

_“What? Do you think hers were any weaker than mine? I, at least, was honest in my steel and bronze.”_

_“I did what I did, always and only, because_ I _love you.”_

_“You know that, don’t you?”_

_“Maeglin?”_

The singer stopped, as if realising that what he said next would be difficult to hear, and difficult enough that even his limited capacity for compassion was touched.

Then:

_“Your mother does not love you, Maeglin. She never did.”_

_“Your mother never loved anyone.”_

He chuckled again, more bitterly.

_“Well, except that one. He must make her very happy now, for her not to even try to look for you here.”_

_“What?”_

_“You think she would look for you, if she could?”_

He sighed.

_“Still so naïve. How could she love a child when she willingly cast off the other half that made him, unmarrying me by having whichever of those titans are responsible for severing bonds tear ours away? That hurt, you know, and more than your own other half thinks it will, if he’s suggesting it as lightly as he is.”_

There was a sudden tremble in the air. The singer snorted.

_“How do I know this?”_

He laughed.

_“Well. Let’s say a little birdie told me.”_

_“Across the world’s breadth this good Lady set forth;  
A lightless world, fearful and dim;  
Across to a strange land; no place for a dwarf,  
She followed the servant of Him.”_

*~*~*~*~*

The surround of the hourglass clicked into place, marking the halfway point of Sauron’s plan.

For the past week he had gone back to the usual methods in a last-ditch attempt – wrangled out a few pleas for the torment to end and a few pleas to Narvi to come to the rescue, but whenever the question in question was put forth – _where are the three rings!?_ – then, nothing.

Celebrimbor was in a trance-like state now, no doubt attended to inside his mind by the figment of his beloved Narvi and too hurt to question whether or not it may be Sauron in disguise. Sauron had gone overboard on the potions. He hadn’t meant to, but he’d forgotten he wasn’t dealing with a certain other prince, and this one was more sensitive to this kind of attack – weakened in his heart by the destruction of Eregion, and the complications of his personal attachments.

“What a mess you are, my friend,” he crooned to the insensible elf. “We shall have to do something about that…”

A human thrall carrying hot water approached the door to the dark cell.

“Enter,” Sauron called out to her. The door opened as he bid it to.

Hurrying in, the woman put the basin of water next to him on the edge of his rack, and went out backwards, grovelling behind her ragged veils as she scuttled away. Sauron was growing tired of thralls like this, to be honest. They didn’t look at all respectable. Cowering beasts.

He should have had much better, in the heart of his keep. Celebrimbor would not like to be doted upon by such vermin if he did end up at Sauron’s side – even he had his limits with lesser creatures.

_There I go, getting ahead of myself, dearest_ , he thought towards the prone figure on the table. He wet a cloth in the hot water and began to clean around the wounds caused by the restraints; ugly, red and purple vines of bruised flesh, not healing as quickly as they should be. _Time for another meal, I fear._

Celebrimbor was beginning to falter, and that made this a dangerous time, because Sauron did not want him dead before he knew where the rings were. In fact, he did not want him dead at all, and what did that matter? He was the most powerful entity this side of the sea? Who would dare question his desires?

A certain remnant of a certain family of elves, notwithstanding.

“Though in your case,” he mused aloud, “they might question your sudden allegiance to me more than… not at all.”

He thought of the elves who remained to question for a moment, and their prejudices.

“Then again, maybe not.”

The cloth went back into the water. This was boring work, if he was honest, but he preferred it wasn’t left to his beastly thralls or lumbering orcs – and to put Celebrimbor into the hands of some of his more talented servants, why, that did not bear thinking about. So he sighed, and idled his time wiping away the dried blood.

_Maybe not_ …

The image of that great garden came to his mind again, not the desolate place in Lomion’s imaginary world but the true garden it had been modelled on in Gondolin. That last solstice of the city’s painters, the coy compliments he’d paid through Lomion’s lips to the gobsmacked artists. Would the elves of this modern age be quicker to recognise what was before their eyes, should he have made Celebrimbor his husband, and sent him back to them?

His spies were sure. They didn’t know at this moment that he had been captured, so he could have easily had him say he’d been hiding out this whole time, perhaps recovering from a wound. They might have been more suspicious to hear him claim he’d escaped capture, yet ultimately they were no less stupid than the elves of Gondolin. Some of them would also dearly want to believe it true, even. Some others might want just as much to believe him a traitor, and validate their feelings towards the son of Curufin.

But then, while he may have had far more detractors than Lomion had had, he also had far more friends. People who would stand up for him. Not all of them had been killed at Eregion.

And not all of them were elves – damnable dwarves and their resistance to magical persuasion. If they were not all just as dim as elves naturally, he would have had a lot more difficulty pitting them against each other over the years.

Anyway, why send him back to them when he could keep Celebrimbor safely by his side where they could work on more important things? If he had the rings, he wouldn’t need a _mole_.

The elf’s eyes twitched.

“… who…?”

“Ah, you’re waking up. Ready for another dose?”

Celebrimbor shuddered and pulled against his bonds, whimpering a little.

“I’m only joking.” Sauron wiped at a smudge of dirt at the side of his face. “I thought we might have another little chat, if you’re up for it?”

“Get your foul hands away from me, you creature!”

Sauron pulled his hands back, for a fraction of a moment worried – if Celebrimbor had caught a glimpse of what his hands looked like… but of course, the gauntlets covered them completely and Celebrimbor was only throwing out the usual insults all of his enemies used.

“That’s what I like to hear,” he said with amusement, hoping it was quick enough to save face.

_Once I have the One I will have the power to address the deterioration in form adequately_ , he told himself. _It’s nothing to worry about. It’s only looks, anyway._

“Pleasant dreams, I hope?”

Celebrimbor looked at him suspiciously. “If you defiled them again I did not notice.”

“Defiled? You give my little visitation too much credit. When I defile your dreams trust me – you’ll know. But I have nothing of that sort planned for the time being. Tell me, my friend, where are those last three rings you made? I so dearly love your work it pains me that I’ve never seen them, truly.”

“Then I hope to go on causing you pain as long as possible,” growled Celebrimbor.

“Hmm, Tyelpe, you’re getting better at this. I’m impressed.” Sauron set the cloth aside and stood up. “I’m also fearing I might soon have to pick out the colours for the wedding. What do you think? Red and gold, in honour of the forge’s fire, and yours?”

With a disgusted expression, Celebrimbor spat in his direction.

“… maybe black and white _is_ more suited to your perception,” Sauron muttered. He then regretted it, realising he’d put the emphasis on ‘is’, as if to imply he’d been discussing this with someone else. “But not your complexion. Give me what I really want within two weeks, and you won’t have to find out what that chamber looks like.”

… _or me, beneath this helmet._

“What you really want…?” Celebrimbor repeated. “Annatar, even if you did have the rings, and even if having them gave you possession of all of Middle Earth, what happiness could that possibly bring you? I’ve seen the burden Lordship can be since I was a child – is that really what you want? Why? Do you simply hate the people of this world so much that nothing will satisfy you but causing them to suffer under your power for eternity? What could they have done to make you hate them so?”

_Now where is this coming from?_ Sauron wondered.

A heartfelt plea? He doubted this particular elf had any place left in his heart for him, but then, elves could be ridiculously forgiving. However the more likely thought behind this question was to start a forging a little path to manipulation. Sauron wouldn’t have expected it from Celebrimbor, who detested mind games and their association with his father. But he was also his father’s son. One expected him to have a degree of talent for it.

All right then, he would bite. _Let’s see where my dear friend is going with this._

“Do you think me the same as my old mentor, his self-professed Majesty? – may he rest in peace, until the day he wakes…”

“Your master, you mean.”

“I wouldn’t have thought so.” This was the truth, as far as Sauron saw it. Melkor could not have had true mastery over him or he would not be carrying on this fight in his own name now, instead of in Melkor’s. “But you had him down just now. He hated this world and its inhabitants and wanted nothing more but to see them suffer. Sometimes to ludicrous extents. What made him hate them was that they were the children of Eru – or of his followers in the case of your bosom companions the dwarves – and making them suffer would make Eru suffer. But I have no such personal feud with the Creator.”

There was a frown on Celebrimbor’s face that interrupted the usual hatred. A hint of curiosity emerged. Sauron went on.

“No, I came to Melkor when I grew bored of my first mentor – mostly because he explicitly told us never to go near him, and surely someone of your descent can sympathise with that? I stayed because working under him after so long repeating the same old creations was so… liberating, in a way you cannot fathom. Melkor was fascinating to one such as me. And I remained by his side even after because… well, it would have been an even worse decision at that point to turn back.”

Ossë had come into the Workshop that one day – long before the creation of the ‘day’ – seen what Mairon had done and asked, like an idiot,

_‘What have you_ done!?’

Off to his drippy girlfriend after that, and from there to Ulwë, to cry about what he’d seen and beg forgiveness. Mairon had never liked Ossë. Not really. But if the idea of what Mairon had already done at that point had been the time to ask for forgiveness, then the time to leave Melkor had already come and gone for him without him realising it.

“And now you are so afraid of even the mere whisper that one day he will return that you cannot stand to go back? It’s not like he’ll be happy with you for this. Are you more afraid of the Valar then, and what their punishment might be? Do you think they’d throw you through the Door of Night, even if you begged forgiveness?”

Would they believe he wanted forgiveness, him being Sauron the Deceiver? They would if it was genuine he supposed, even if it was only genuine that he wanted forgiveness because forgiveness would mean their protection, rather than that he was genuinely remorseful for his actions. Even then, Aulë would probably take him back, he thought.

Well…

… maybe not even if they knew about Lomion. But that hadn’t been the tipping point for him. No.

“That’s not it, my friend. Rather – as hard as it may be for a being like you to comprehend, but for every year I’ve spent drenched in the blood of Eru Illuvatar’s children I spent ten or twenty or a hundred sitting in Aulë’s workshop wishing I was somewhere else. I’m not ready to give up on that yet, to go crawling back to them and their sanctimonious – ”

“But does it have to be _this_ path you go down? Where you bring nothing but misery to the world?”

“What other path do you propose I take? That of the benevolent guardian of the peoples of Middle Earth? They would never accept that and you know it. I sealed that fate long ago, and I have the mind to recognise it. Besides which, I have no desire to protect the pathetic creatures. But to rule over them – now, that would at least be an achievement.”

“And achievement in itself is that important to you?”

“Apparently it is.”

Celebrimbor snorted, contemptuously. “And you would be a ruler who neither hated nor loved his people, but was indifferent to them. The middle option?”

“Don’t scorn the middle road, Tyelpe. The Valar want your kin to dwell with them across the sea, and one way or the other that’s where they’ll go.” _Even the ghosts, if I get my way_. “Your dwarves live long but can barely sustain their population in times of peace. If they defy me – and being dwarves, we both know they will – “

That elicited a smile he hadn’t wanted to see, and he could have almost slapped the elf for it, but restrained himself to cruel words.

“ – they will eventually lose enough of their people to make their survival untenable. But as for men? Men will accept the middle road so long as it staves off the lower path for the duration of their miserable little lives. If I can keep them mostly fed, and limit their contact with the orcs and other creatures, then why shouldn’t they accept me? There are worse rulers among them than I could ever be.”

“And you think men will not aspire to more than ‘oh, it could be worse’, for the rest of eternity?”

“Some will defy me, I’m sure. Foiling their plots will give me something to do while I work on where I go from being ruler of all Middle Earth. I wonder what would happen if I tried to send a fleet of them across the sea? Are they ever going to scrub all of that blood out of the streets of Aqualonde?”

There was silence from the table.

“Oh, I’m sorry – that was insensitive of me. And we were having such an interesting conversation too.”

“… Men as a whole will never follow you. Your presence pollutes the earth around you, and they cannot eat from polluted earth. As for orcs, you cannot stop them from being orcs. There will never be peace between them and the race of men.”

“Well, maybe I’ll just exterminate the whole lot of them, then? I wonder if the Valar would act, when their stand is that death is such a gift for men? I’ll admit, that one has never made any sense to me.”

Celebrimbor’s eyes narrowed. “That would never happen. Never mind the Valar, Eru Illuvatar would never let his children be destroyed.”

“What’s that, Tyelpe?” asked Sauron, with exasperation. “ _’Estel’?_ How noble of you. After all, you putting your trust in others has never backfired on you now, has it?”

He glanced over at the hourglass, the sand softly falling onto the now larger pile in the bottom half. He was beginning to suspect that Celebrimbor’s cry had been a heartfelt plea to his better nature after all. And he really had gone overboard if he’d made the elf think that might be a good idea.

“… I wonder who you’d trust so much you’d leave the rings with them? I’m tempted to suspect your good friends the dwarves, given how much you go on about the one dead fellow.”

He scoured the elf’s face closely but there was not even the slightest hint of a reaction. Of course, it would have been too easy if he could have just tricked Celebrimbor into giving him hints like that. He wasn’t a complete idiot, after all.

“Narvi still holds the ring in his heart that is the promise between the two of us to love no other. Even when we were in the same bed, what I felt for you never began to compare.”

Now that, that started him back towards the elf to slap him for his insult – to suggest that he could not compare to a dwarf who had doubtless only made love to his own hand before that ‘marriage’ – and he only just manage to morph the beginnings of a harsh backhand into two palms placed flat on either side of the elf’s head, leaning down on him to hiss –

“Maybe so, but if you had been married in the elvish way you could never have even _thought_ of coming to my bed afterwards.”

“Then why was this bond you speak of not created the first time I slept with you!?”

“Because _I_ can choose whether it is created or not!”

“In that case what are you so afraid of? Bond with me here and now and prove your claims – I dare you!”

One of Sauron’s gauntleted hands slid up to grab the elf’s face and constrict the hard metal into the flesh of his cheek and jaw, and he twisted the head to the side and whispered through his faceplate into his ear –

“Oh, you would like me to try, I’m sure – try and fail, and in failing send your soul to Mandos, but not today, my friend. If you wonder why then think on the one bond between elf and maia that is spoken of – that of Thingol and Melian – and what happened to the latter when the former was slain. I would take a gamble in doing this to you, my love, but if I didn’t mind a little risk I’d still be toiling away in Aule’s workshop, churning out the same old boring crystals, summer after winter, after summer.”

The elf shied away from the words hissed straight into his head. But then, to Sauron’s surprise, found the nerve to lift his head and look right through the visor with his red, burned eyes.

“And do you think that would be more of a risk than facing the people of Middle Earth with my three rings unaccounted for? Even with this One you go on about on your side? It almost seems like there’s another reason you speak of marriage. Like you just can’t stand that there’s a part of me you can’t have otherwise. Like someone who’d rather slaughter millions on top of the millions he’d murdered already than admit he made a bad decision to begin with.”

_Do you love him?_

Sauron shoved Celebrimbor’s head roughly in the other way so that it clunked against the metal enough to stun him, and stood up again.

Go so far as marriage with this lesser being over a childish desire to possess his heart? _Its_ heart? When he knew how dangerous marriage to an elf could be? Absurd.

“You’re nothing but a petty child with too much power,” Celebrimbor forced out after him, through his pain.

“A child?” Sauron repeated, forcing himself to laugh. “No. I understand the world beyond the knowledge of elves, men, dwarves, and certainly beyond that of the children of any of them.”

_Calm down, now,_ he told himself. _You’re not Melkor, throwing his tantrums when things don’t go his way. Leaving his lair because a High King called him ‘chicken’ instead of having him shot from the ramparts. They’re only elves, after all._

Elves…

He thought of Lomion abruptly, in that wide, white space, and he shuddered.

“When the last of those men who remember fighting my armies alongside your people have turned to dust it will be much easier to flip them from hate to love than to do so to you. Men love power, and I have more of that than any other leader they could choose. And then all the histories would say that it was you who were the tyrants and I the saviour of men. And it would be easy.”

“You cannot rewrite history. The tales will be passed down from those who remember – “

“Those who remember?!” laughed Sauron. “You know… I said I’d tell you about Maeglin Lomion one day, didn’t I?”

_Careful now_ , he reminded himself. _Careful, careful._

“Another petty child who could not get what he wanted?”

“Undoubtedly,” lied Sauron easily. “But once he was within my power he told me all about the way things were in the secreted, sparkling city of stone and precious metals. Read any good histories of Gondolin? I suppose you don’t take the usual Feanor-ian camp view that they were all cowards who refused to fight Morgoth with their cousins but the once?”

The view by which the third kinslaying had been justified by the surviving sons of Feanor, at the time. The expression on Celebrimbor’s face said no, and Sauron was hardly surprised. There had been more than a few survivors of Nargothrond at Sirion as well.

There was also that little coil of fear in the reddened eyes, like he knew he was about to be told something he didn’t want to hear.

“No, I thought not. Those books – they often say something along the lines of ‘it happened that people would find the hidden city from time to time, and there find succour from the shadows beyond and live in happiness’. And that is true. But they only ever give three concrete examples, don’t they?”

He held up three fingers.

“Tuor, destined to discover the city by divine providence and save… well, we’ll be nice and say more would have died if he hadn’t been there than actually did in the end, although one might argue it would have been better for them if he’d never come at all. Anyway he lived there in happiness until the city was destroyed, so there’s that.” He put one finger down. “Hurin and Huor – they came in on the back of an eagle and were, uniquely, allowed to leave by eagle since they had not actually seen the way in, though one might argue that was also a mistake.”

One finger remained.

“And then there’s Eöl. The one all the most sanctimonious of loremasters say Turgon was wrong to kill, because any kinslaying brings evil, even if the accused did kill your sister.” He paused. “And yet, Turgon had promised death to Eöl before the poisoned javelins came out, for not abiding by the law of the city – which was death to all who tried to leave. One might wonder what would have happened to Eöl had he persisted in his intention to leave but not murdered any of the king’s close relatives? Because having him killed after what happened to Aredhel, now, that was completely understandable. And he’s the only one history specifies did not abide by the law of the king.”

Sauron lowered his hand and took a step closer to Celebrimbor.

“I spoke directly with Maeglin, long, long ago,” he told him, leaning in. “Would you like to guess how many people good old Turgon the Wise had put to death who are _not_ specified by history?”

Celebrimbor’s eyes widened, before narrowing suddenly again, no doubt debating with himself whether he could believe this claim or not. Sauron stepped away, now towards another part of the room. The specific claim in question was not the point, for it was not that Turgon had been much of anyone to Celebrimbor, aside from the father of the girl he lost every race he ran against in his childhood. If he had been, there would have been a cursory ‘Turgon would never do that!’ at least.

The point, once again, was doubt.

“You see, my friend, it’s a simple matter to shape history around the better or the worse deeds of a king, whichever those writing the histories should choose, and in the scenario we discuss the pen that inks those histories might as well be put in my own hand.”

“You won’t – ”

Sauron tired of these unimaginative broad denials. Did Celebrimbor not realise they were past that point? He cut in effortlessly.

“Oh, just so you do not misunderstand, I do not speak glibly of Turgon Fingolfinion being called ‘the Wise’ because I believe he was wrong to have all those who disobeyed him put to death. Far from it, that hidden city of his would have been flattened centuries earlier if he hadn’t. Putting his _trust_ in his nephew? Now that, that was markedly unwise.”

He walked over to the cabinet of medicines on the far side of the cell and opened both doors with a flourish. A new idea had taken root in his mind, with the little ghost of a ghost of his current husband having snuck to the forefront. He had a plan of how to use Lomion to his advantage without the danger of Celebrimbor discovering the truth.

As long as he was careful about the composition – and he was always careful – a much more effective mental image of the stick he held against the elf would be forged in thought and shaped in mind – even like his dear Lomion’s adorable little fortress.

“Now,” he said cheerfully, “what were we saying about dreams again?”

*~*~*~*

The paving of the stone streets of Lindon revealed itself one slab at a time through the smoke tinted orange by the roaring flames. The fires were so huge that it was difficult to hear the distant screams. Every now and then the clink-clink of sword on sword cut through the cloud, and the rumble of falling rocks created an even greater sound from time to time – like a great wave of darkness was destroying everything beyond the smoke and it was only a matter of time before it found him.

Celebrimbor recognised some of those far off screams – the cries of the people of Eregion who he had failed. This was not the first time his dreams had taken him back to that night.

But he recognised these streets too. These were the streets of Lindon.

When the first soldier came stumbling out of the darkness he thought at first the clothes he wore were unfamiliar, the emblem on his shield foreign, but it must have been a trick of the light because in a ripple of shadow the colours were bloodied white and the face beneath the helm he recognised as that of Nerion, one of the guard-smiths who had been apprenticed to a former student of his.

“My Lord – ?”

The voice was distorted by the haze of heat and thunder of the fire.

Celebrimbor raised the sword that was in his hand and sliced Nerion’s neck open, shoving him aside to disappear into the smoke. Three strides later…

_Why did I do that?_

He kept walking through the firestorm. The sound of fire kept pulsing through his head, it was like it was filling his mind and leaving no room for thoughts of how this was happening or even the feelings of sheer horror such a situation should have engendered. That such an act as he had just committed should have engendered.

All there was, was the great roar of the flames, and the persisting twisting in his stomach that told him something was very wrong with all of this.

_Why did I do that?_

Through the smoke a wall appeared, and he turned almost at the last moment to avoid walking right into it. The turn was such that it made him dizzy for a moment, but he moved on, on to where the smoke drifted in a different fashion, because there was a wide gap in the wall where something had broken through with great force, leaving the sturdy bricks crumbled over the ground on the other side.

Celebrimbor stepped over the one layer above the foundation of that wall that remained, and into a courtyard of a much redder sandstone, quarried from a seam south of Hodrodhond that had delivered much of the building material of Eregion. This was a place he knew – a winery. He could hear the shriek of glass breaking in the buildings beyond.

But this building had not been behind such a large wall, when last he’d been there. He remembered that, and yet it didn’t seem to matter. He was walking with purpose, with a certain destination in mind, only it just wasn’t quite in the forefront of his mind what that purpose was.

_It will be better this way, my precious._

Annatar’s voice soothed him inside his head. The strangeness of the situation did not abate, but the slight buzz of anxiety quietened to nothing. His husband wouldn’t let anything bad happen. His husband was doing all of this for the best. His husband said everything would be all right.

It was important to trust one’s spouse. He stopped in the shadows when the smoke at the courtyard’s exit beyond danced with movement, and soldiers herded a group of civilians along a street up ahead.

“They’ve already swarmed the market,” said one voice. “We need another way out.”

“Please, you don’t understand – “ another cried, “my sister is still inside the building, she went back for our mother’s necklace – “

“I’ll look for her,” a third voice promised.

There was a clink of moving metal, aborted, and then there was a sigh, and a fourth ordered – “Don’t take long, we can’t wait for you.”

“I’ll catch you up.”

And then one of the shifting shadows, armour clinking again, ran through the smoke and into the courtyard. Again the colour of his armour seemed to change as he ran into Celebrimbor’s view, what had looked like elaborate decoration on the breastplate disappearing in the blink of an eye to the more restrained embellishment his Captain, Olonas, insisted on.

And the face of the guard was that of Olonas’ son, Melenas – looking almost even more youthful than Celebrimbor remembered him from when last he’d seen him in the days of the siege…

“Lord Celebrimbor – you’re here, thank good– “

Celebrimbor cut him off, grabbing his arm as he approached and shifting it so that he could drive his sword through the gap in the armour beneath the arm and between his ribs. Melenas looked up at him with eyes full of disbelief and betrayal as he died, eyes that didn’t look like his, and Celebrimbor thought he heard a female voice gasp in horror at what he’d done but when he turned around there was no one there.

He let the body drop to the floor and carried on. He had a purpose. Somewhere he needed to be. Somewhere his husband needed him to go.

_Why did I just do that?_

The twist in his stomach came again. There seemed no reason in the world for him to have done such a monstrous thing to such an innocent person, but his hands had moved and his sword had plunged in and if he were to look behind him now he might still see the mass of the murdered body through the haze.

That was not something he had any reason to do. Why had he done it?

_It’s all for the best, my pet. Everything will be much better when this is done._

Yes, that was right. It was all for the best.

Celebrimbor continued on through the smoke-filled streets, threading through the spots where the roaring grew louder and avoiding the shouts and the clash of metal on metal. As he passed through the steel gate inlaid with bronze stars that had guarded the way to his father’s old house in Himlad, a squadron of orcs came out of the flames and darkness, jogging in two columns of eight behind a leader with more elaborate armour.

Celebrimbor was still casually walking up the marble path. He did not turn to face the orcs. The soldier who was at the head of the right-side column bared his teeth and began to break off from formation, but Celebrimbor barely looked his way. The lead orc grabbed the other’s arm.

“No, not him,” it said.

The orcs passed him by without a second glance, disappearing into that glowing smoke.

_Don’t worry about them_ , his husband told him. _Keep going. You’re almost there, sweetheart._

Sweetheart.

That last word caused a strange reaction in him now. A relief and a revulsion at the same time. The word soothed his nerve in one part of his mind and turned his stomach elsewhere.

_What is this?_

_What is going on?_

_Why am I doing these things?_

Celebrimbor kept walking. From time to time other elves would come across him, and trusting him they did little to defend themselves when he slaughtered them, one by one, soldier or civilian, friend or stranger.

On the ramparts of the palace at Nargothrond he looked out over the burning city and saw the guard tower by the bridge he’d helped to fashion collapse to the ground. In the strange light reflecting off the smoke he thought he saw towers that were unfamiliar to him all together, only maybe from a picture book he’d once seen, but when he blinked they were gone – and this was Nargothrond.

When he looked down again he was holding Ereinion, his younger cousin, his rightful king, in one arm and the sword of his father in the other. He pulled on the hilt of the sword and it withdrew from the younger elf’s body, covered in blood and dripping.

_No_ , he thought.

_No, not Ereinion._

_This isn’t right._

_This can’t be happening!_

Ereinion’s eyes were semi-shut. Celebrimbor pushed him over the edge and watched him fall into the smoke.

_Why am I doing these things?_

He kept walking on.

“It’s for the best.”

_What have I done? What have I done, is this really happening?!_

_Why am I killing these people?_

_I can’t…_

_I couldn’t be doing this!_

“Just keep walking, my love. You’re almost there.”

Blood was still dripping from his sword, his hands, running down in rivulets along his breastplate – red, elven blood – and none of it had come from him. He wasn’t injured in the slightest. The elves he’d killed were butchered too quickly to fight back and the orcs would not attack him for some reason.

“They know who you are. They know you are my husband. Just keep walking, pet. Keep walking.”

His husband? That voice was not his husband’s though.

His husband was…

His husband was…

His husband was…!

The harder he tried to think of it the more the buzzing grew in volume, and as he climbed the stairs to his chambers in Eregion he wished he could call out to his real husband to come and help him but he couldn’t remember the name, the roar of fire was driving out everything from his mind and his body seemed to be acting of its own accord and –

He opened the door. The mirror on the adjacent wall had been moved, so now it was opposite him, and in his reflection he thought his eyes and armour flashed black for a moment, but when he looked again they were only darkened with some kind of terrible feeling and the gouts of the blood of his victims.

Annatar was standing behind him, and put his hand on his shoulder.

“There now, my beloved,” he said. “What do you think of how it is to be my husband? Now you’ve gotten rid of the last of Indis’ descent the title of High King will revert to you, as it should have been yours from the beginning. This will be a fruitful partnership indeed, beloved. I know it.”

High King? But that was not…

He was shaking, he could feel himself shaking, but the reflection in the mirror stood calm and still, and doused in blood, and behind him Annatar leant forward to kiss him on the cheek. As he pulled away Celebrimbor saw the tip of his tongue dart out to wipe away from his lips the blood that had been on the cheek he’d kissed.

This was not what he wanted. This couldn’t be happening. Annatar was not his husband. Where was his husband?

Everything was wrong. He needed him to be there with him now. He needed him. He had to be there. His husband was…

Was…

The roaring was so loud it shook his brain, and he tore his eyes away from the reflection that was not his and the mirror that blurred into something unfamiliar when he moved too quickly, and trying to reach forward to get away from this world with a body that suddenly would not obey his commands at all he fell to his knees.

Where was his husband? He needed him. He needed him to make this all make sense to him. His husband was…

“Where are you going, my love?”

… his husband was not Annatar. But he couldn’t think. He had to remember him – his own husband! – he had to be there, somewhere, beneath the roaring of the flames.

“What are you thinking about? Someone else?” Annatar chuckled. “Don’t bother. There’s no one else here you haven’t already killed.”

He… he had killed…

No. No, he wasn’t like that. He wasn’t his father – his uncles. He had _promised_. This couldn’t be happening. He needed his husband, he was the only one who could help him and he had to be there.

He had to. They were married.

And that meant they were always together. That was how elven marriages worked.

In the smoke that was billowing into the room he saw a vague, shadowy figure – broad-shouldered, stout – dwarven.

Yes. His husband was a dwarf, wasn’t he?

Celebrimbor crawled forward desperately, clinging on to the thread of hope that his husband had to be there with him, thrumming in the buzz of the heat. He didn’t look up, couldn’t see anything anyway through this awful smoke, just kept pushing – across tiles that were giving him as much purchase as oil-slick mud.

He wept, as he crawled. Sobbed like a child having a tantrum that it was all so difficult. But then the faintest brush of hair against his face entered his mind, the umber locks of a familiar beard, and he threw his arms around the figure crying helplessly.

“I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I didn’t want this to happen, please! I didn’t want any of this to happen. I’m so sorry.” He kept repeating the apology over and over as the thunderous noise began to slowly move into the distance, and behind him Annatar sighed.

“What’s this you’ve found, my friend? Could it be a dead dwarf? Why am I not surprised? But you prefer being married to him than to me? That’s fine. I would prefer not to marry, as I’ve said.”

The voice moved closer, whispered right into his ear as he clung on harder to the body, refusing to open his eyes to whatever terrible sight awaited him.

“… and now I’ve given you a taste of what being married to me would be like, I do hope you’ll reconsider that business with the missing three rings and whose possession you left them in.”

A taste… ?

He remembered that human child doubling over, choking, all of a sudden. That was right – another of Sauron’s tricks – an illusion.

“It… it really couldn’t be happening.”

“Oh, it really could, precious,” protested his captor. “I’ll admit this little scenario isn’t exactly what it would be like – beneath the outer layer of docility I guided you into on this journey through a dream, you still kept something of your own mind, the whole way through.” He paused. “Difficult though I’m sure it was for that mind to formulate a thought.”

A hand patted Celebrimbor’s head, and he shied further away into his husband’s chest.

“If we must marry, I’ll have no need for you to keep such feelings of your own.”

The dream faded into darkness with that pronouncement. Celebrimbor thought of that promise, the sight of his uncle lying in that healing chamber in his wasted state, and the raving, ranting creature that had been led away to the Void in chains at the end of the War of Wrath.

_No,_ he thought, remembering also Sauron’s earlier declaration. _You are not like your master._

_You’re worse._

*~*~*~*

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, there you have it. I might have lied about Sauron and Celebrimbor's talk being productive... 
> 
> In the next exciting chapter, Sauron and Maeglin also have unpleasant dreams - although in Maeglin's case that's pretty much his entire afterlife. Thank you, all who have left kudos or comments, or who have read this far!


	7. Night Fifty-One

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey, guys - hope you're all well. Here's another chapter of this thing. I feel like I might have gone overboard on exposition this time but...
> 
> Anyway, in this installment, Sauron has a dream featuring a lot of water - one might even call it 'wet' (lol, geddit?). Also - a shocking revelation about Bunny!

That night, Sauron also had a dream.

It didn’t happen often – he had been thinking too hard about one thing or another and expending too much energy in creating raiments and constructing the dreams of others lately, he thought. This whole thing was proving to be more trouble than it was worth, but if he could just get those last three little things out of the way…

Well, he was dreaming now, and there was nothing to be done about it – by the nature of the dream he was not aware enough to pull himself out of it.

He was lying in Celebrimbor’s bed-chambers in Eregion, the naked elf entwined within his arms and legs, his raven hair soft against his chest, a lock of it fluttering with every breath. The shutters to the outside world were closed, and neither the slivers of sunlight nor of starlight passed through the thin lines between the wood and the wall nor did he sense the blanketing feeling of heavy cloud above them that might have blocked either from filtering in – leaving him only with the strong sense that he should not open those shutters, and gaze upon what waited for him on the other side.

So he lay there, in the fine sheets, on the fine bed, in the chamber of the city’s Lord. It was, perhaps, the reconstruction of a memory he’d kept of a morning he had shared with Celebrimbor not so long ago – as Celebrimbor’s recent dreams had been reconstructed from his memories, or his memories… _interwoven_ , one might say, with those of another prince. But Sauron hadn’t the forethought then to peruse his own history and pick out the very day he dreamt of, if that were the case.

“Were you dreaming, Annatar?”

“Do you suppose that Maiar dream as elves do?” he replied – neither a lie nor an answer; a typical response from any of the Ainur.

Celebrimbor shifted up onto on elbow, looking down at him. “Are you saying you don’t dream?”

“I have ambitions – if that’s what you mean.”

“Do you sleep?”

“I rest. It’s neither like the rest of elves nor men, but my energy is not without its limits.”

The elf grinned, his stormy eyes lighting up. “Did I tire you out?”

Sauron snorted. “You may believe so, if it pleases you. I suppose if any elf were to do so it would be you.”

“That’s rich, Annatar,” Celebrimbor replied with raised eyebrows. He raised himself higher, palms flat on the bed either side of Sauron’s shoulders, arms locked straight. “Considering I was doing all the work last night.”

With a little effort, Sauron made sure his pose and expression remained the same as before, but he felt an unmistakably unpleasant jolt from Celebrimbor’s teasing. Something like indignation, and resentment. Celebrimbor shifted his body and Sauron realised or remembered that yes, he had been on the receiving end the night before.

‘Receiving’. Like it was a gift of some sort. The Ainur were not beings who reproduced through intercourse like the children of Eru; it was not something they practiced amongst themselves, but they could fashion bodies or ‘raiments’ for themselves that mimicked every single function of the material forms of elves and men, if they so desired. These raiments were not made of the same substances, but if one knew as much of the inner workings of those bodies as Sauron did after stripping as many as he had to the bone, a maia could fashion a raiment that could reproduce the same sensations as an elf’s beneath the same stimuli.

All to make the lie more convincing. And so as to set Celebrimbor’s mind at ease he did not refuse to ‘receive’, when they were lovers, and felt it much as an elf would have when receiving. Not hateful, otherwise no one would ever do it. He could even admit to recognising some pleasure in it.

But he would have preferred not to. It was… not in his nature, to let another _in_. To be honest, he didn’t understand why Celebrimbor enjoyed switching from role to role – now, if they were to marry properly, Sauron thought, then Celebrimbor would happily assume the passive role every time they were together. He’d remake him to enjoy only the passive role if they were married. Of course then there wouldn’t really be any reason for the pretence of lovemaking anyway, so he didn’t know why he was wasting time imagining it.

None of it meant a single thing, in the end.

“I finished that thing for you, by the way,” Celebrimbor told him, rising up out of the bed. Sauron watched him reach for a nearby dressing gown – cream, with red and gold embroidery of flowers. Or fire, when he blinked and looked again. Or non-descript shapes and asymmetrical pattern. “Shall I have it brought up?”

He turned.

“Or do you want to go down?”

Sauron sat up. “ ‘that thing’?” he asked. “You’ve piqued my curiosity. Have you been forging rings again, my love?”

Celebrimbor’s smile widened, and his eyes darkened. “No rings,” he said. “At least not for fingers. But surely you must know, Annatar?”

That feeling of discomfort – it pulsed again in his heart. “Must I?” he repeated casually.

“Surely you’ve already guessed?”

A pause.

“No? Well, in that case, come on down to the forge and I will show you.”

For a moment Sauron looked away, thinking he probably didn’t want to go down to Celebrimbor’s forge to see what he had just completed. But this wasn’t about what he wanted – or rather it was more about what he wanted in the long run: to remain as friendly as possible with the grandson of Feanor so as to better deceive and manipulate him. So he stood up, reaching for a robe of his own and smiling his usual, amiable smile.

As he passed the mirror in the room he noticed that there was a deep groove in the side of his face, and he quickly found the substance he’d used to resemble skin and smoothed it out, wondering how he could have let such a deformation happen and hoping Celebrimbor hadn’t noticed.

They walked down the corridors that seemed so much more closed in than they had before, past windows all invariably shuttered so as to prevent the slightest hint of light from coming in from the outside, the warm glow of the candles along the walls casting pitch-dark shadows where there should have been none. Down, down, down into the depths of the castle – not where Celebrimbor’s forge had been before, come to think of it.

“My friend…” he said, uneasily.

“Just a little further,” the elf assured him. Then, chuckling, “Don’t tell me I really did tire you out, Mairon?”

Sauron forced himself to laugh in turn. “Of course not. But... this place…”

He trailed off, and Celebrimbor made no mention of it, continuing to walk down the twisting stone steps. As they descended further Sauron began to realise he did recognise this place, but it was not Eregion, and as soon as he realised that he found he could hear the distant roars and screams, and the heavy thunder of moving machinery – and smell the smoke and blood on the thinning air.

Celebrimbor led him straight to one of his old workshops in Angband, opening the door on the racks of small devices, cupboards, shelves, that awful bell Melkor had but to pull from within his throne room to send Sauron racing to his side, even when he could have summoned him with a thought, and on a row of tables elves – in various stages of dissection. Celebrimbor paid no attention to these things, only to the bench at the centre of the room, but Sauron dragged his eyes over every inch of the long-ruined, long-burned, long-drowned workshop he had spent so many decades in all those years ago.

It hadn’t even been that long, he thought. Not in the reckoning of his own people, but then it had been a while since he’d had much contact with any of them. The last had been Eonwe, with his stern and solemn eyes.

_“I will conduct you safely to the judgement of the Valar, Mairon. I can promise nothing beyond that.”_

Not good enough. Not good enough by far when they may well have sentenced him to the same path as Melkor. And there had been that other thing…

“Here it is,” Celebrimbor announced cheerfully.

Sauron heard the sound of a chain rattling as it was pulled along a wooden surface before he turned to look.

“What do you think of it, my friend?”

In his hands, Celebrimbor held out a ‘ring’, in that it was ring-shaped. A band. He saw elements of all the other rings they’d crafted side by side within it, a strand of gold knotted one way, a pattern of silver engraved within another, a sapphire, an emerald, a ruby all cut the way they’d cut the gemstones for their greatest collaboration, all on a wide circlet with a lock at one end and a chain of black metal hanging down from it.

A collar. At its centre – a mithril plate engraved with gilt daeronic runes spelling out the Sindar word –

_One._

His breath caught. He remembered, watching through borrowed eyes, the ring of metal they’d pulled Melkor along by. He held his hands up as if to stop Celebrimbor from trying to force the ring around his own neck.

But Celebrimbor didn’t move, only stood grinning, proffering the item – so Sauron took it from him, and held it up as if to put it on the elf instead: his to do with as he pleased, his possession. His precious.

Yet Celebrimbor raised his own hands to stop him.

“Ah-ah,” he said, the fire in his eyes burning all the brighter, “Not really my style, don’t you think?”

“You look good in anything, my dear,” tried Sauron.

“Such a flatterer,” Celebrimbor chided. “But you can’t put a chain on fire.”

“I hope you don’t think I’ll be wearing this then?” Sauron asked him, making sure to sound in good humour.

There was a tense pause.

Then Celebrimbor laughed. “Of course, my dear, I know you better than that. You did tell me that for you so many years of just working directly beneath the Valar had been stultifying for you.”

He had, at that. One of those misleading truths he loved so much. But Sauron’s relief was very short-lived.

“Come on then,” Celebrimbor told him, taking his arm. “He’s waiting for you through here.”

Sauron looked up and like he’d forgotten the layout of the room until that moment he suddenly realised where Celebrimbor was leading him. The tall doors that went from his workshop into the natural hot spring who’s like had dotted the mountains of the north here and there. His private bathing room.

He did not want to go into that room.

Realising he’d stopped, Celebrimbor turned back with a questioning look. But he didn’t wait for the answer to his question – as if he already knew what that answer was he just chuckled again, saying, “Come on. Let’s not keep his highness waiting.”

‘Highness’ was said with a roll of the eyes – did he mean ‘him’, or Him? Either way, Sauron did not want to go back into that room after what had happened in there.

And yet, the doors were getting closer. Like that other dream-like world, the laws of the real world mattered only as much as he let them, and his mind was drawing him closer. His heart.

The doors opened. Beyond a thin veil of steam the cavernous lamp-lit chamber of stalactite and stalagmite surrounding the wide, murky spring appeared almost exactly as he had seen it last, but for the enormous swathes of black cloth. Tied to the crystal formations and the scraggly rocks and studded with what must have been tiny gems to appear like stars they were pulled towards the centre of the room in a great web.

In the centre of the web, bound entirely by the cloth, was Lomion – and though he was so clearly trapped in place like a helpless morsel for a child of Ungoliant a part of Sauron couldn’t help but feel he looked as much like the spider at the centre of the web as he did its victim.

And why wouldn’t he have been there? He’d been there the last time. Observe the act of intercourse on multiple occasions as he had for the sake of his studies, Sauron had never performed it himself before that night. Why would he have? To engage would have been to put himself on the same level as those creatures, all but an act of bestiality, and totally unnecessary to debase himself with. Revolting.

Somewhere comfortable like the hot spring had seemed like an appropriate venue for the wedding. Somewhere to clear up any mess that may have resulted, for that matter. Lomion had been drugged – much as he looked to be now – to help ensure he survived that first step, and it would have been simple enough if…

… if Melkor hadn’t followed him in. He cringed and shut his eyes at the memory. It shouldn’t have bothered him so much. Intercourse was for the Children of Eru – there was no reason for him to have attached the same meaning to it, just because he had fashioned a body in close in function as one of theirs as he could. The Vala had wanted to ensure he did it properly, he imagined – Sauron having been so opposed to it before relenting.

… No he hadn’t. He’d wanted to ensure he made it hurt.

_“Good, Mairon. Now rip into him. Tear his body and his soul apart with your own. Force his mind open and take it for our pleasure.”_

_“My Lord, I would – but I must take some care in this; it would be useless if he were to die.”_

_“Die? He won’t die down here. Nothing as merciful as that, my servant. Thy potion has seen to it, hasn’t it?”_

_“Dulled his perceptions, my Lord, yes. But I cannot always accurately predict how much the act itself will untether the soul, even before the bond has its chance to – “_

That terrible laugh. _“Mairon, thou told me it was weaker elves who died during defilement, even when drugged. Now, whose bloodline does this one belong to? Do thou think he will be weak, as far as elves go?”_

Bloodline. Sauron had the feeling that Melkor wanted to imagine an entirely different elf was in his servant’s arms at that moment. But he was nonetheless right. Lomion was not the type to die before his rape was even completed.

_“Violate him, Mairon. I would see him destroyed beyond any other destruction we have visited upon one of his kind. Pierce him open and obliterate everything he once was. Show me his blood, spreading into the water around you – if you will not come out of the water, that is.”_

Sauron remembered the nerves beginning to get the better of him. And in that state it would make it even more difficult to do what needed to be done. He’d made his own body too close to that of an elf’s, and the thought of having to join himself with an elf while exposed entirely to the scrutiny of Melkor…

But then, his spouse-to-be had leaned his head in against him whispering the word that thankfully drew Melkor’s attention away from his previous line of thought.

_“… Ada.”_

_“What was that? Did our guest just call thee ‘Ada’, Mairon?”_

_“The last elf who bathed with him thus, I imagine.”_

And then there was Melkor’s terrible laugh again.

_“This is Nolofinwe’s blood, that much we know, but if we are right then it is by the daughter. Who did she wed, Mairon? Did we ever hear of that?”_

They hadn’t known the identity of Lomion’s father then. Sauron wished most fervently that he’d never come to know him later.

_“No, my Lord,”_ he’d replied, reaching up to the collar of the white bathing gown he’d dressed his virgin bride in. He pulled the loose material down the elf’s shoulders, exposing his back. _“But I’d wager he was of the Avari.”_

No elven tribe, to his knowledge, had ever used methods by which they might permanently ink designs into their skin – only dwarves, and some men. As he well knew from testing out such methods, it was much more difficult to cause any permanent change to an elf’s skin, as opposed to that of the other races. But if ever any had been barbaric enough to mar themselves with the red-brown tree of runic inscription that covered the back and shoulders of his consort, he assumed they’d be Avari.

There was a black chain around Celebrimbor’s wrist from his beloved Narvi. An intricate braid of ink to symbolise their bond. He hated that tattoo with a passion, but it did not cause him the uneasiness the rune tree Eöl had etched on Lomion did. That pale white skin, inherited from his sun-shy, needle-happy father. Its light was so much fainter than Celebrimbor’s glowing complexion, more like stone than shining steel and gold. Like white marble.

No, not marble – like porcelain. Like his own porcelain doll, hanging from the ceiling with his black puppet-strings in the same room they’d married in, all those years ago.

“There he is,” said Celebrimbor approvingly. “Your other princely consort.”

“… how did you find out – “

“We’re bonded, Mairon,” said Celebrimbor. Sauron only then realised that he was using that name, rather than ‘Annatar’. “I know you, and you know me. So I know all about your other toys.”

Celebrimbor could never have sounded so cheerful to see a fellow elf, or any creature – let alone a cousin – in such a vile place. The ‘stomach’ in Sauron’s body, such as he had one, turned to see his teasing grin.

_But why should it? This is exactly what I want from him. Better even._

“Come – let’s put it on him, and make your mastery official.”

That twisting, sickening feeling – it grew ever stronger even as Sauron found himself guided to the hanging prince, Celebrimbor moving his hands into position to place the band of amalgamated rings around Lomion’s neck. Only then did he realise Lomion was awake, and aware. His dark eyes stared into Sauron’s.

“Gaudy trash,” he said, of the circlet.

“We know _you_ think so,” Celebrimbor told him with amusement. “But Mairon and I think it looks rather fetching on you, don’t we?”

The collar clicked into place. Sauron didn’t answer. He wanted to tear his eyes away to look at Celebrimbor instead but Lomion’s seemed to hold his in a place of their own. Why was this so hard to bring to an end? He should have turned around and run – no, walked away. But he could barely take a single step backwards, water sloshing around his ankles. It had been deeper than this before, hadn’t it?

Then Celebrimbor brought himself into view of his own accord, ducking between the stretches of night-like fabric and draping his golden body over Lomion’s shoulders, burning ever brighter than before. The body of the creamy robe was beginning to detach itself from the red shoulders, the red that flickered before his eyes like flames. Celebrimbor pulled the black away from Lomion’s pale shoulder.

“Don’t you remember what a bond means?” he asked Sauron. “What’s mine is yours and what’s yours is mine?”

He licked a long stripe down Lomion’s jaw and neck, pulling away from the collar and then continuing to the collarbone, where he bit lightly just above the tip of a runic branch. Lomion winced and shut his eyes, turning his head away. But he didn’t complain. He had been like that during their wedding, Melkor laughing at how compliant his princely captive had been in his own defilement, laughing at the idea that Lomion might have thought in his drugged state it was his own father touching him. He’d flinched from each touch of Sauron’s skin on his but never pulled away, like someone who was unused to the touch of another but craved it all the same.

Celebrimbor turned Lomion’s face towards him and pressed his lips against him, all but devouring his short breaths and whimpers. His hands pulled down more of the black robe below his chest, and the one whose wrist was bleeding black ink from the tattooed chain found Lomion’s pale pink nipple and tweaked it.

“Don’t do that, Tyelpe,” Sauron told him, not even thinking about why he’d bother, why it bothered him so much. “He doesn’t like it – it makes him uncomfortable.”

“But I like it,” Celebrimbor returned, rolling his thumb around the small nub of flesh. “And I know you like it too. So we are partners in this, wouldn’t you say?”

Sauron held up his hands again, as if to stop Celebrimbor from doing what he was doing, as the elf’s other hand slid down the silk-clad side of his cousin and inside his thigh, fondling him through the fabric, his hands glowing brighter and brighter. Lomion whined, but never complained, never struggled, just kept as still as possible – or maybe the web was holding him in place. Sauron only felt colder, sicker – he admitted it, he enjoyed the act of intercourse with Celebrimbor because Celebrimbor seemed to enjoy it so much with him – but not with Lomion.

Not with Lomion. Not the two of them together – which was impossible anyway. If Celebrimbor was his then Lomion had to have already followed the call across the sea, hadn’t he? To have their bond dissolved by the Valar so Sauron could make a second? Then they’d patch him up as best they could, smooth out the cracks in the porcelain and make him a part of the happy house of Finwe once again, wouldn’t they?

And yet, somehow Sauron couldn’t imagine that. Somehow in his mind, Lomion had remained here in the pit of Angband. In his soul.

And somehow Celebrimbor was not his possession, but his ‘partner’.

This was not the desired outcome of Sauron’s machinations. Why was he watching it now? Why was he standing there, doing nothing, as Celebrimbor’s actions became more passionate, as he kissed Lomion harder, pressed deeper against him, held him tighter – as the black chain attached to the collar of rings clinked and rustled with him movements? As the fire spread out from the centre of his body, as the reflections on the water and in the crystals broke free from the surfaces and became more than just reflections of a golden fire?

Why did he stand there, only feeling more and more dejected?

_This isn’t real,_ he told himself. _It’s only a stupid dream. You know it’s only a dream. Why don’t you just leave?_

_Just leave, and don’t think too hard on what you’re seeing now. It’s Lomion’s fault, all of it. So stop dancing around the issue and put him in his place._

_Leave this ridiculous dream and go back to the Gondolin that never was. Demand he leaves for Mandos so you may be free again. You are a Maia, he is only an elf. He cannot resist your true power, even if a little of it has found its way to his own use._

With a deep breath, Sauron turned right around, to where the doors back into the workshop looked so much further away than they should have been, and he willed that they should move back into place, and closer, and he stormed towards them, ready to leave this farce of mixed memories and anxieties behind.

But as he reached out for the door’s handle, something tugged on his wrist, pulling it back. He looked down.

A shackle.

A shackle of black galvorn with a single Black word engraved in runes, glowing in gold.

_One._

The chain went all the way back to Lomion’s neck, now wreathed in pure flames, Celebrimbor all but vanished into the fire that engulfed the room. And when Sauron looked up, the ceiling of the cavern was gone, and the cliff reached high, high up into the wall that surrounded the Gondolin that really had been was there instead.

The inferno raged, like a storm around him, with Lomion the only other thing he could now see. But this fire did not burn him away as it had before; there was nothing left of him that fire could burn. The long swathes of black sparkling in the ferocious glow did not disappear into ashes, but stretched on into the black sky above.

And a pull on the chain between them drew the bound Lomion right up close to him, while Celebrimbor and Melkor both laughed where Sauron couldn’t see them. Lomion sighed.

“You forgot the chain attaches itself at both ends, didn’t you?” he asked solemnly.

The black fabric web was so close he could see more of it than he could of flames, and more and more as the lengths began to move and pull, drawing Lomion ever closer. They weren’t even really fabric, just blackness dotted with fading sparks of light.

“You should know,” said Lomion, “because we are married, what I learned, long ago.”

Sauron said nothing. The web drew in ever closer, blocking out all light and sound from the dream.

And Lomion explained, as the last two pinpricks of light reflected in his eyes faded –

“When the fire has burned away entirely, all that is left is the darkness.”

He cocked his head.

“I thought you wanted us all bound in darkness, _precious_?”

*~*~*

Lomion too had a dream that night, though Mairon might have said that saying so was redundant – that the city he lived in was nothing but a dream – but still the fact remained.

In this new city, some times and places were more dream-like than others. When Mairon left him in the garden, the world around him changed into one less rigid and bound by the laws he’d been accustomed to.

And wasn’t that what dreaming was, in essence?

But Lomion did not like to dream. Not anymore. It was too much like the time Mairon had…

… when they’d first married, that is…

_“Ah, I see you now. I see everything about you. But I don’t want you to worry about any of this,_ Lomion. _In fact, I think this would be much easier on both of us if you would just…_

_… stop…_

…”

He remembered it. He remembered everything, after all.

His mother had once told him that the Vala Vaire, consort of Namo the Judge, recorded the histories of the world by weaving each event into a tapestry that hung around the endless walls of their home in Mandos. That seemed so much more real now, he thought, because the best way to describe what had happened was that Mairon had taken hold of the tapestry he’d woven in his own mind – the events he’s experienced, or imagined, or dreamed and… unravelled it. Unravelled it entirely.

All the towers, all the mountains and the mines, and the fields, the forests, the faces of the people he had known and with them their names, and with that what names were, what people were, what he was and everything he had been before – all gone. In one moment, all that was solid about him had dissolved, like every line of ink in an entire library had become fluid again, dripped out off of the shelves into a black flood and left only blank white paper behind. He had felt like a pool of liquid in an empty, white room, like he had become the water Mairon had taken him into that night.

Mairon had pulled on the threads he’d required as he required them after that, walking him back into the city and doing everything he could to keep up the pretence that he was the same Lomion he had been before – and thank goodness he had, because Lomion could only imagine how foolish he would have looked to the other Lords of the city and his uncle as a blank, empty entity, unable to so much as move himself, let alone carry out his duties.

He remembered Mairon walking him through the garden at the last solstice festival of arts. He’d done a good job of it. A very good job. One of the others had even…

_Well,_ he thought to himself. _You wouldn’t have had to worry about that if Mairon hadn’t unwoven you in the first place._

…

…

…

It had never hurt. Mairon loved him after all, so why would he hurt him if it could be helped?

But it had been so very hard, to weave those thoughts and memories back together again. If Eöl had not still been there, at the bottom of the walls and cliff, waiting since the day Turukano had cast him hence…

_“Oh, my son. What_ have _you gotten yourself into?”_

He remembered Eöl had bent over that puddle he had been, looking not as he had and later would again remember, but without that body, without a form that he could understand – a shape placed before something that knew not what a ‘shape’ meant, because it was not one of those errant threads that Mairon had had need to bring to his attention.

_“… what a mess, Maeglin. This is going to take some work.”_

And somehow, perhaps only by as much as transferring an image from his own mind to his son’s, the bodiless, formless Eöl had drawn a rune onto the mess that he had been.

‘I’

‘I’

‘I’

Just one brief slash that had once adorned the skin that burned away at the bottom of that cliff. A single line that meant one’s _self_.

It was difficult not to remember the inking needle, white hot and dipped in a terrible, corrosive concoction, stabbing into his flesh over, and over, and over. He had been a child then, and cried and cried and cried, and begged for Eöl to stop and promised he would be good and not go off into the forest alone or ask questions about the kinslayers.

_“This is not a punishment, my son,”_ Eöl had told him. “ _This is necessary. If all else should fail and the thing I fear should come to pass these runes will protect you – not your body, I know of no runes that could do that, but they will protect your mind.”_

He’d paused for Lomion to scream again.

_“They work via the fire-reveal technique.”_

Yes. As that body had burned away on the rock face of the ruined city, those markings must have lit up like constellations.

Starting with the ‘I’ and going on from there, lines of runes of different heights and thicknesses laid next to each other and branching off from one another in truest black – until they had formed the shape of a huge tree whose limbs of words curled over his shoulders, arms, and even far enough up his neck by the time they were finished – at his majority – that in Ondolinde he had always worn a high collar even in the centre of the forge.

_I am the child of the forest of starry light_

_I am the child of the waters of Awakening_

_I am the child of the fire beneath the mountains_

_I am the child of the empty sky_

_I am the child of the maker of Anglachel and Anguirel_

_I am the child of the land that birthed the First_

_Ever and always_

_Ever and always_

_Ever and always_

And the runes that had made that tree went on after that, in much the same vein. How embarrassing it had been, in Ondolinde that was, to look out the window at other ellyn cavorting topless in the sunlight and seeing not a single scrap of their flesh marred by ink. Even among the dwarves Eöl had learned the custom from, what he’d done had been unthinkable. How Dorchar and Drorchar had raged at the thought of a child so young being tattooed thus. How he’d cursed Eöl inside his mind in those days.

Eöl was so smug about it now too. But a bitter truth was still truth. Eöl had been right.

He had been right again now. Mairon wanted him to leave. Was he right to say that Lomion should never do so, under any circumstances? Was Mairon right, to tell him Eöl should not be listened to?

It was so hard to think like this, this liquid state. What was it that had come after the runes?

But after the runes had come the before, of course, the going back to the beginning – _that_ was how it was done – back to the beginning, and someone who could help him along the way without being cruel to him.

Lomion remembered his hand-carved cradle, the lantern with the stars cut out of the casing spinning around above him, casting little lights onto the dark walls. It was one of his earliest memories.

“What’s this?”

He remembered the sound of the door creaking open. His mother’s soft sigh of conjured surprise.

“Look, my friend. It’s a little friend for _you_! Do you want to say hello?”

He remembered her moving Bunny a little around the door frame, so that only his head was showing. Back when both eyes had been firmly attached to his face.

_“Who’s that, Lady Elf?”_

“That’s my baby, sitting in his cradle there. Shall we go over and meet him?”

_“Yes, Lady Elf. I’d like to meet your baby very much!”_

He remembered Nana hiding Bunny behind her back as she’d crept in, kneeling down beside him. The warmth in her smile.

“Did you hear that, my son? Someone wants to meet you. Would you like to see?”

He remembered nodding, not yet quite up to getting himself out of the cradle, but he could sit up and hold onto the edge, and he leant over…

“It’s…”

Bunny had hopped around from behind Nana, her hand holding his back, moving him towards him – right up to the cradle wall. The toy had been as big as him back then, if not a little bigger.

“ – a doggy!”

She’d made a few barking noises. _“Hello, little elf. I’m a dog. Would you like to be my friend?”_

The ‘dog’s long ears had swayed back and forth. Too long for a dog’s ears. Why Nana was telling him the creature was a dog?

_“I’m all alone with no other dogs like me to play with. Since there are no other little elves here either, why don’t you play with me?”_

He remembered reaching out and examining Bunny’s lace-covered ears, before the lace had been replaced with real rabbit hide. Definitely too long to be a dog’s. He remembered looking to Nana for an explanation, and seeing her hopeful smile turn to worry. Hurt, even.

“… you don’t want to be friends with the doggy?”

“Bunny,” he’d told her.

He remembered her dropping the toy in shock. Had that been his first word? That was a little early even for an elf’s memories to recreate, and besides – with the re-weaving he’d had to do it was difficult to be sure.

“My son?”

“Bunny.”

“Oh? Oh, because of the long ears? This is what some dogs look like where your mother comes from. They were bred with special long ears to draw the scent up from the ground during the hunt.”

He remembered insisting, “Bunny.”

“ – even so, I may have made the ears a little too long.” He remembered her half rueful, half amused sigh. “I’m no great craftsman like my Uncle was, I’m afraid.”

“Bunny!”

_“No, no,”_ the toy had been moved up and down. _“I’m a doggy!”_

“Bunny!” He remembered his mother’s continued insistence otherwise had started to make him worried.

He remembered a shadow appearing in the doorway.

He remembered Eöl’s laughter.

“Would you look at that? That baby knows more about the natural world than you do, if you call that a dog.”

He remembered Bunny being suddenly thrown across the room and hitting Eöl in the chest before he could move to catch it. He remembered Eöl picking it up with a grin.

And…

… he remembered he did not want Bunny in the hands of his father. He had reached over the edge of the crib.

“Bunny! Bunny! Bunny!”

Nana had stood up, sighed, and tried to take the toy back from Eöl, but Eöl had been his usual self about it – moving out of the way when she tried to make a grab for it, laughing at her, making her frustrated. Making him anxious.

And he had tried to step in and take the Bunny away, but how could he have ever though that would work before he’d known how to properly form steps? He’d reached out as far as he could towards them, stretching, stretching, further and further out…

… until the edge of the cradle had slipped out from his hand.

And then he had fallen.

…

…

…

“Do you not want to go to Aman, Tithellon?”

He was in his workshop again, sitting up against the settee he used for rest. Bunny was shaking his knee.

Lomion breathed a sigh of relief that that liquid-like feeling had gone again. Thank goodness Bunny had returned to him in this place.

“Isn’t it where your Nana and Uncle came from?”

Gathering his thoughts, Lomion shook his head – not to say no, but to shake off that dreaming feeling. Once he felt able, he answered.

“It is,” he said. “But they left for a reason. To destroy Morgoth, and protect the peoples of Beleriand.”

“But Mairon said they can help you over there too – and you said it wasn’t like it used to be, even now.”

A fair point. Lomion knew his mind was still different to the way it had been before, and he missed the way he used to be. But.

“It’s not that simple. I’m still a prince of the Noldor people, and I have duties to attend to here. As long as I can still carry out my duties, I must stay here to do so. Or do you think we should leave the running of the city up to Itarille again?”

“Hmm,” said Bunny, looking out toward the palace. “She wasn’t very good at it, was she?”

Production had decreased by fifty-five percent when he’d returned the last time, almost as high as the percentage of his workers who had left for battle with him when he had put pre-emptive measures in place to see output reduced by no more than twenty-five percent. When he’d asked her about it she’d told him it had been ridiculous to assume his remaining workforce could cope with that kind of load, and had instituted a complete overhaul, taking time away from her own essential duties to do so and leaving everything a mess.

They had been going off to battle, possibly to die – and he’d lost seven percent of the soldiers he’d taken out with him! Was it so absurd to have expected those who stayed behind to pull a little more weight?

Lomion had no problem pulling a little more weight. A few missed stitches in his mind from a messy re-weaving – it wasn’t ideal, but it was far from being too much for him to handle.

He nodded. “We’ll wait here, and if my Uncle needs me to join him before he gets back then I’m sure he’ll send instructions somehow.”

He looked out the window, at a greyish-white sky. Everything was fine, but he got this nervous feeling sometimes, if he hadn’t been given clear instructions in a while.

… by someone other than Eöl, that was, as Eöl still hung around harassing him when everyone else was gone.

_Your mother doesn’t love you._

_Your mother doesn’t love anyone, she never did._

Lomion turned around on the long seat, facing the wall, arms wrapped around himself tightly. Behind him, he was aware of Bunny pulling himself up onto the settee. The rabbit put his paws up on the cushion.

“But do you think… Do you think, Tithellon, that your Nana really is across the sea, like Mairon said?”

Re-sewn memories springing to mind, Lomion made a noise of discomfort.

Turgon had been red-eyed and shaking in his private chambers, his daughter lying on his bed and weeping, and other Lords had been in the room but when Lomion had been herded in like a frightened cat – very unbecoming, embarrassing behaviour to look back on – Turgon had called one of Itarille’s friends to attend to her and given him a look of sorrow, and of not knowing what to say. And he’d embraced him, and he had tried to remain as still as he possibly could and not try to fight his new king’s wish. He’d spoken soft words, and set him down in a comfortable, but incredibly gaudy chair.

They’d spoken – the words were difficult to parse. Then Penlod had stepped forward, clearing his throat and calling him for the first time –

_“My Prince, I know Lady Irisse will have taught you the fate of an elf whose soul is separated from their body?”_

_“… Mandos.”_

_“Indeed, my Prince. Lord Namo holds your mother’s soul in his keeping now, and he will look after her within his halls. And while it may be that she falls under the Doom that was pronounced to us, and may not be permitted to return to a body for some time, nevertheless Lord Namo is both just and merciful, and we can trust that all that falls under his purview will be well.”_

_“Penlod is right,”_ agreed Turgon, introducing the other elf to Lomion thus. He’d squeezed the Lord’s arm briefly before returning both hands to Lomion’s shoulders. _“Irisse is gone from this world now, but Eru willing she is not lost forever. One day, when the Shadow of Moringotto is gone from this land we might return to Aman and see those we have lost again.”_

“… when the shadow of Moringotto is gone from this world…” Lomion repeated now, in the present. “Even if my mother is across the sea… I shouldn’t go just to see her when there’s still important work to be done here. Mairon never denied that there was still bloodshed outside these walls – that’s why we have to make sure they remain secure.” He paused. “And I don’t trust Itarille to see to that.”

Itarille. He was she wouldn’t have gone with the others so she had to still be in the city somewhere. Turgon would also want some assurance that she was being cared for.

“Itarille is so annoying,” agreed Bunny. “No wonder Turgon likes you better than her.”

Inappropriate. “Let’s not talk about that now,” said Lomion.

“But if she is still here, and you leave to go across the sea, but your Ada was still here too, then it could be you, and Turgon, and your Nana maybe, and that would be much better than you and your Nana and Ada, or you and Turgon and Itarille.”

With a groan of exasperation Lomion sat back up again and held Bunny up so their eyes were almost level, hoping that would help in getting the point across –

“Ada will not stay here if I leave,” he growled. “You know he won’t – I told you about what happened before! And what would happen if he followed me across the sea and someone tried to tell him he could not leave again!? He’d do something _I’ll_ regret, that’s what. I’m not making the same mistake twice.”

He put Bunny down next to him and lay back down again with a huff, legs hanging off the settee. There was a long pause before Bunny spoke again.

“I’m sorry Tithellon. I just thought… maybe your Ada is wrong about your Nana. Maybe she does want to see you.”

“Ada doesn’t lie.”

“But he’s not right all the time.”

Lomion shook his head, turning his face in to the cushion.

“It would be nice if we could see her, maybe. We could just check, and if she doesn’t want to see you anymore we could come back, couldn’t we?”

“Stop it. She has a new husband now. Ada told me she could even have new children with her new husband.”

“Who did she get married to?” asked Bunny.

Preferring not to say, Lomion kept silent. Honestly, Eöl couldn’t know for sure who his former wife was married to, or even if she was, but the taunts he’d heard him harass her with in his childhood…

_“Not the husband you dreamed of, Princess? Not straight-backed and bright-eyed like a picture-perfect Golodhrim prince? Like one of your kinslaying cousins? Tell me, it’s not really done on this side of the sea, but over there – do they marry one brother’s child to his brother’s child?”_ A chuckle. _“Maybe it’s all right if they’re only half-brothers.”_

_“Where did you even hear things like this from!?”_

_“Oh, I hear things, my lady. I hear many things.”_

Eöl believed without a doubt that his wife had had their bond broken so that she could marry her cousin – Celegorm, the kinslayer. And if his mother did have a new husband, and possibly new children, then his reappearance in her life was sure to be more annoying than welcome. Lomion did not dismiss the possibility. Even in Gondolin…

_“I shouldn’t like to think how a reunion between Turukano and the sons of Feanaro would play out. Lady Irisse may have been close enough with Tyelkormo to forgive them for the ice, but his grace was not particularly close with his cousins even before the kinslaying.”_

_“I do not believe Lady Irisse was as close as all that with any of Feanaro’s sons.”_

_“What? Oh come, Ecthelion, I would never suggest anything untoward, of course – “_

_“Salgant.”_

_“ – but you cannot deny they were good friends, and Irisse spent much time hunting with Tyelkormo.”_

_“Salgant.”_

_“ – What? They both liked hunting in the wilds – is that a crime to say? I would never spread base rumours about Lady Irisse. Even if there had been ‘something’, I am sure it was all on Tyelkormo’s part – “_

_“Salgant! For the love of all that is good – the Lady’s son is in the room!”_

Ecthelion’s voice echoed in his mind. Like when they’d spoken in the garden, that last solstice they’d all been there.

Ecthelion. He was the one who had…

“Would she make a new Bunny, for new children?” wondered Bunny.

Lomion didn’t answer.

“Tithellon? Do you think your Nana will make a new Bunny?”

Lomion grabbed Bunny and held him close.

He had just remembered – remembered that he already remembered – something else.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's true - Bunny was a dog all along! 
> 
> (I'm sure that one's right up there with 'I am your father', huh?)
> 
> In the next exciting episode of Dragonball Z, Celebrimbor continues to have a crappy time of it. Many thanks again to all who are reading, have left kudos or have commented! :D


	8. Night Fifty-Four

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello, all! Hope you're well. In this very special chapter of 'Cry Wolf', we see how Celebrimbor engaged in the ultimate rebellion against one's father... getting a tattoo! Unfortunately, just as your parents always told you it would, it brought him nothing but trouble in the end. 
> 
> Also, Sauron drops by for another petty argument before his third visit to Not!dolinde

The dream of the fall of Eregion that had cast Celebrimbor in the role of the executioner of the city’s inhabitants haunted him, even in the darkest depths of his prison.

He didn’t know if those had been Sauron’s own memories, fed into his dream, or if it had only been the monstrous imagination of a pitch-black soul (he hoped the latter, so that he might at least believe those elves he’d known who had been slaughtered in the dream may yet have been alive in reality), but it was the feelings that had been coursing through him in that experience that disturbed him – even more so than the vile images of the murders.

_He is my husband. Everything will be all right._

Would it really be that easy? Celebrimbor wanted to believe that Sauron’s threat of bonding – he refused to call such a thing a ‘marriage’ – was a lie through and through. That he had no such power, to not only control Celebrimbor’s body through the act, but also his feelings: so as to make him consent to his own defilement and thereby survive it, and to make him consent to worse thereafter.

So he tried to run his mind over the possibilities again.

He believed that there was a physical bond between married elves. That much he had understood more or less since childhood, so Sauron was probably not lying on that count.

An elf would die if physically violated, either during or soon after the heinous act – that much he knew too. Was Sauron right in saying that that was because of the nature of elven bonding? Again, it didn’t seem unfathomable that it was true. After a Sindar traveller had been found dead upon the road by a dwarven patrol and deemed to have met her fate in that way – likely at the hands of outlaw men, since they had left her body afterward – Narvi had asked him:

_“Your people die when forced against their will? Why?”_

And he’d replied, _“It is against our nature, wholly.”_

Narvi had accepted the answer then, but later Celebrimbor had worried if his repeating the only explanation he himself had ever known might not have sounded like he meant it was therefore wholly _within_ the nature of the races who could survive it. What Sauron said to him, unfortunately, seemed to at least explain it in a less ambiguous way.

“So now the crux of the matter,” he imagined Narvi saying. “Can a Maia have the power to overwrite that?”

“He couldn’t,” Celebrimbor whispered in the darkness. “Could he?”

“Are you asking me or saying outright he couldn’t?”

“The former, I suppose. If it was the latter then I’d only be wrong like I am about everything else.”

“Oh, quit whining – I’ve never met anyone who whines as much as you.”

Celebrimbor smiled, somehow. “You’ve met Rugni.”

His imagined Narvi glared. “Then you take the number two rank.”

“As if an elf could ever surpass the best the dwarves had to offer.”

His imagined Narvi swatted him with the back of his hand. “You lout. The point is, do you have enough of your elven trust in your own maker to believe a Maia couldn’t force a bond, even at this point?”

_Trust_. There it was again. And he felt it in the core of himself, the voice telling him that the darkness he was trapped in now would not last forever, but at the same time he remembered seeing softness in Annatar’s gem-like eyes and feeling the warmth in his arms – and hadn’t that all been a lie?

“I don’t know anymore,” he confessed. “But I do know not to trust a word that that monster spews at me. The only problem is that dream – that vision – felt so real… and I am terrified that it could become reality, Narvi, you can’t imagine how terrified I am that he could destroy my – my very self, so utterly. I…”

He trailed off, throat too dry to continue with such vehemence. He no longer remembered when his last drink had been; a worrying sign for a creature supposedly possessed of perfect memory. Every other moment his body seemed to fade from numbness into agony and back again. It was impossible to concentrate.

He was sure he’d been over these points before.

“Mm,” Narvi agreed. “My people were never so susceptible to spells and influences as yours or your little brothers and sisters. That fiend wouldn’t be making any kind of bond with a dwarf, and that’s a fact.” He paused. “Of course that would lend credence, wouldn’t it, to his saying that you never formed that bond with me?”

_No_ , thought Celebrimbor. _Don’t go down that path, Narvi_.

“You are my husband,” he choked out. “Only you. Always only you.”

But the Narvi of his mind couldn’t help but voice the darkness that lurked in the place he’d come from.

“Oh, I’ve no doubt I was your husband and you were mine,” he replied. “My people don’t require any physical ‘soul-bond’ to call themselves married. But even without that they never love but once – I told you this. And you told me that elves are considered married if they lie with another elf, and would never lie with another thereafter – the only known exception being your great-grandfather and, and this also being in keeping with what Sauron told you, it was ever after considered among your people that said great-grandfather was no longer married to your great-grandmother, when he took his second wife.”

He sounded like he was taking Celebrimbor to task for theft. He sounded so because the only time Celebrimbor remembered him sounding truly accusatory was when he’d dismissed one of his apprentices for theft.

He hated it. He didn’t want Narvi to sound that way with him.

But he felt so ashamed, and the vision of bloodshed had made it so much worse.

“So let me ask you, elf: do you still think we’re married, when you freely gave yourself to that wretched butcher?”

“We have to be,” Celebrimbor whispered. “Please, Narvi. We have to be. Forever and always. I didn’t – it wasn’t – it wasn’t like that when I… I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.”

“Not sorry enough not to have done it in the first place, are you?”

“Please don’t say that. Narvi wouldn’t say that.”

“Wouldn’t I? You know how important the culture of my people is to me. Dwarves love _once_ , they marry _once_ : death means nothing to a dwarven marriage! You fell into the arms of the enemy but a few summers later – even if he hadn’t been the enemy, why would you do something like that if what was between us meant anything to you?”

If he’d had anything but pain in his stomach, Celebrimbor might have been sick.

“It meant so much to me. You have to believe me.”

“Ah, so now you want _me_ to trust _you_?”

He probably shouldn’t have, at that, looking at what had happened to a whole city of people who had trusted him.

“Do you think your cousins trust you, after everything that’s happened? Haven’t they already assumed the secret of the three is well within Sauron’s grasp, and prepared for it?”

“If they’re wise,” Celebrimbor admitted. “So I suppose it doesn’t matter if I tell him or not. But I…”

“But you what, now?”

“… I don’t want to become nothing but a toy for Morgoth’s lieutenant. But to give him the satisfaction of willingly giving him what he wants…”

“What’s one more time on that count?”

“Narvi wouldn’t say that.” He spoke with more conviction now. Berate him for being foolish, accuse him of being unfaithful – that was his prerogative as a dwarf, doubtless, but to even jest that he should willingly act as the enemy’s agent – regardless of whether it made a difference to the wider struggle in the long run…

A dwarf would never. Play along as part of a ploy to escape and destroy their captors in one, as Telchar had, that was one thing; a dwarf would just as easily have been praised for refusing and going to his death – young cousins alongside and all. Simply giving up? That would never be accepted.

“I won’t,” he whispered in the darkness. “Even if you never would have forgiven me anyway, I still won’t tell him. Even if the better part of what he’s said is true. He’s left some loophole out, I know he would – I know him well enough to know that now.”

“He always did before,” Narvi reminded him. “Lies he told a-plenty, I’m sure, but truths that were just as deceitful as lies – those were his favourites. Those ‘white-lie-truths’. Do you remember them?”

Celebrimbor remembered. It was hard to keep his mind straight on anything in this state, but he remembered: entertaining Hodrodhond’s finest at Eregion, promising Narvi to cook for him himself only to have Rugni, blasted, pig-headed Rugni, stop mid bit of bread and declare he’d never let anything Celebrimbor made pass through his lips. Before either Celebrimbor or the then-too-old-for-this Narvi could say anything Annatar, smooth as honey and twice as ensnaring, assured the bore of a dwarf that all he saw before him had been made by the hands of the female elves as was the Noldor custom. Had let him assume that that would be the case for every course, not just the bread. Always amusing when Rugni was the butt of the joke.

“What do you want to bet that if that carbuncle were here now he’d be shaking his finger, ‘I told you that elf would come to no good one day, Lord Narvi, I told you so’?”

Celebrimbor would have laughed if he could. And if, as ever, Narvi hadn’t been ‘not funny’.

“What’s this? I’m being nice again, suddenly? Your head is a mess, isn’t it, Sir Elf?”

“I’m not having the best of times.” Celebrimbor admitted.

In the darkness he tried to imagine the feeling of Narvi’s hand over his, even as the echo of the earlier accusations still thrummed in his head. _Dwarves love only once_ , he told himself again. _Even if their love turns out to be a useless worm, they don’t fall out of love. Somewhere, wherever he is, he does still love me._

There was a now familiar scraping sound in the darkness, the turn of metal on metal. Eighteen. Or was it nineteen?

“Twelve days at most before whatever plan that foul creature has bears fruit,” Narvi remarked.

“I don’t think I can do it.”

“Rubbish. You’re over halfway there already.”

“I know. But it’s still so hard. In another minute or so I’ll probably imagine you telling me I deserve all this again. Or he’ll make me imagine it. Valar, I don’t know how my uncle survived years of this.”

Narvi sighed. “Bastard knew how not to let him die, I suppose.”

“Even so.”

“Even so?”

Well. It had come to this, then.

“… there’s a lot I didn’t tell you about elves.”

A tense pause followed. Celebrimbor didn’t really want to continue, so Narvi did so for him.

“You could simply leave your body for the big elven treehouse in the sky, is that it?”

It was probably something along the lines of what the real, irreverent of almost all things ‘elfish’, Narvi would have called Mandos.

“Yes,” said Celebrimbor. “But the trouble is… “

“The trouble is you have to really _want_ to go.”

“I don’t know if it’s really a matter of ‘wanting’, or wanting alone,” Celebrimbor said, now with only moving lips, no voice – but of course the Narvi in his head heard perfectly clearly. “I’ve heard elves scream for Mandos to take their soul in the past, elves who are still alive today – at least I hope they are. So there has to be something more than that.”

“Do you think maybe you’re not ready to go?” asked Narvi.

“I should be, shouldn’t I? The land where my family waits for me, even if you’re not there. To keep the secret safe and restore at least a shred of my honour. Not to mention an escape from this… this nightmare. If it was as simple as making a choice… I could make a choice to do something else I didn’t really want to, if it was for the sake of someone else, or for a higher cause.”

“But not this?”

For a while after that, Celebrimbor lay still and listened in the darkness. He heard the distant clanking of machinery, a roar of fire – shouting, yells from dark and angry voices and of course the ever-present pit-pit-pit-pit-pit of the sand in the large hourglass.

But not the voice of Namo, calling him to the west.

“In my heart,” he said. “I don’t want to go. I want to stay and I want to turn the tables, get the better of that demon and remove him and his filth from the world. Impossible, I know – impossible from the very beginning, as the Doomsman prophesised, but it’s what I want more than anything else. Anything except to see you again, and yet dying will not bring me any closer to you, I fear.”

There was a long pause from Narvi, but when he spoke, it was matter-of-factly.

“So you’re stuck here until you feel otherwise, or until the Enemy gets bored and finishes you off.”

Or until he carried out his abominable threat, if said threat was possible to carry out. Insisting to himself it wasn’t, Celebrimbor replied:

“So it appears.”

Pit-pit-pit-pit-pit-pit-pit-pit

Pit-pit-pit-pit-pit-pit-pit

Pit-pit-pit-pit-pit-pit

Twelve days to go. Or eleven. He had to be able to make it. He had to.

“Aye,” said Narvi. “But you’ve got to stop doubting yourself. It’s what he wants, even you can see that! You’re playing right into his hands when you have these darker thoughts.”

“I wish you were here,” replied Celebrimbor.

“I am here. Didn’t I tell you that before? Mortals who have died live on in the hearts of those who knew them. There’s a part of the real Narvi in this conversation you’re having with yourself, isn’t there? Just keep him alive a little longer. That bastard can’t stop you doing that.”

No, he couldn’t.

Keep Narvi alive? Celebrimbor could do that much.

It was simple enough for one who had a perfect memory, lying alone in the dark.

*~*~*~*

“Oww! Ow. Ow. Ow, Ow. Owwwwww!”

Narvi huffed. “Would you stop being such a baby about it?! Not that any dwarf baby would cry as much as you do – ”

“I’m not a sturdy dwarf-ling though. I am a delicate, fragile elf with soft, sensitive skin…”

“You’re a pain in the arse, that’s what you are. Who was it that said he wanted a tattoo? And who was it that advised against it?”

Celebrimbor pouted. “But your dwarven tattoos look so dashing!”

“They’re not there to make us look ‘dashing’! Honestly, I don’t know why agreed to this. This is a desecration of my people’s culture – that’s what every one of them would say.”

It may well have been, at that. Knowing how sacred their culture was to dwarves, Celebrimbor became more solemn, biting back any further outbursts about the not-inconsiderable pain in the skin of his wrist. Instead, in case his friend needed the reassurance:

“You found that text though, didn’t you? Explaining how to cause an elf’s skin to take the ink? It must have been done before.”

With a glance over at the old tome describing the nature and history of dwarf tattoos, Narvi frowned a little. “It must have been, though no names are mentioned. Only a warning – the one who discovered the method later regretted it. He said he did not think elvish skin was meant to be marred thus, even though it could be done. He didn’t say why.”

“Well, the test you did the last time has held its shape beautifully, and healed well, so I don’t think there’s any danger my hand will fall off.”

“He would have said it if the tattoo was in danger of doing that!” snapped Narvi. “Now, I can’t make the flesh numb, as I’ve said before, but I can give you a potion to drink for it if it bothers you that much.”

“No, indeed. I’m a famous warrior prince, you know. It’ll take more than a little tattoo to make me give in.”

“Well, thank goodness I didn’t end up inking a mere commoner like myself.”

“I don’t think you’re all that common, Narvi. The runes along your face – I can read them, but I imagine they’re in the dwarven language. Is it forbidden for you to tell me what they say?”

Narvi had hesitated. He’d seen how carefully he’d considered the proposition, even in a few moments. Perhaps, in hindsight, he hadn’t been so cautious simply because revealing even a measly fragment of their own language to outsiders was so unthinkable to dwarves. Perhaps there’d been a far more personal reason.

“ ‘ _No dam, no dwarf, but the hammer’_ ,” he’d said at length. “I had it done as soon as I was thought old enough to take the mark – had tried to mark it sooner, but the inksmith was an honourable fellow. He didn’t change the shape of a dwarf’s face just because they’d grown as high as they were ever going to.”

“What does it mean?”

“It means, Prince Elf, that I am craft-wed. I will never marry another, for all my heart is in the work of my hands.”

Standing as proudly as he did when he announced that, beard immaculate, eyes piercing, speaking straight from the soul, it seemed; Celebrimbor had had the sudden thought that he should kiss the dwarf then and there – that it was that kind of moment, as if from a storybook.

Celebrimbor was the kind of elf who followed these absurd impulses, so he did, sitting up and darting forth, lip to lip – a quick peck to show his appreciation.

He remembered how surprised he was, to find the beard so soft against his jaw.

Narvi had been frozen a moment, then blustered like a father whose precious daughter had announced herself with child by a household servant.

“You – you – what in the name of Mahal was that supposed to be!?” he’d cried out, staring at Celebrimbor all but dumbfounded.

Celebrimbor had been all but wrecked with laughter at the look of such surprise.

“I’m sorry,” he’d choked out, holding his stomach with his free hand. “I’m so sorry – but you looked so noble there, my friend, I couldn’t help myself!”

As he’d trailed off into laughter a Narvi more annoyed than Celebrimbor had ever managed to get him before actually shook his fist, growling –

“You absolute buffoon! You elves might go around kissing your friends as soon as you’d shake their hands but that sort of thing has no place among dwarves, do you hear?!” For emphasis, he’d wiped his lips roughly with his sleeve, but it had only made Celebrimbor laugh harder because it was what elflings playing kiss-chase did when they were caught by someone they hadn’t wanted to catch them.

Or someone they were pretending they hadn’t wanted to catch them.

A good-natured elbow to Celebrimbor’s stomach and the tattooing had continued – with no more offers to mitigate the pain of the needle from Narvi. Yet there’d been something dejected in the dwarf’s eyes throughout the rest of the session. Something less vivacious in his part of their banter. Celebrimbor remembered wondering what it was.

He’d always been an idiot, he supposed.

When the rim of the dark hourglass clicked into place around the number twenty, Sauron flayed the skin from Celebrimbor’s wrist that bore the chain Narvi had forged there.

But he gave him nothing for the pain, and that burning ring around that limb made the memory of that first kiss all the stronger.

*~*~*~*

On the twenty-first day, Sauron watched Celebrimbor on his rack through the unseen window into the cell. The elf was weakened drastically – but only in body. He was treading too close to the flames in inflicting pain upon his dear friend. He should have known better, and yet, he was still taking too many risks with the lovely body in his grasp. That ring of flayed skin, for example – if that didn’t heal properly because of how weak Celebrimbor had been left, he could lose the hand and with it the better part of who he was. Bloodthirsty Maedhros had only needed the one hand to hold a sword with which he might slay orcs and elves alike, but a true craftsman needed both.

He’d forced another egg-mix into Celebrimbor’s stomach, but he still worried the damage had been done. How careless.

And in that same vein – a few drops of blood he had been infusing into his temporary raiment dripped onto the igneous floor and he removed the needle with annoyance.

“Get a grip,” he muttered to himself. “You’re better than all this, are you not?”

The closed eyes of his little homunculus did not move. Looking at it like this kept it at forefront of his mind why he needed the damn thing – for yet another visit to Lomion, and the city of dreams. This time to force his hand. He knew that there was no way Lomion could have had the power to resist him if he truly pushed, and yet…

That dream, that nightmare, rather – it shouldn’t have bothered him so badly; he was sure the events of it meant nothing, but the feelings it evoked – that sense of dejection, the lack of concentration – it just wouldn’t seem to leave him, even days later.

_It’s Lomion’s fault_ , he reminded himself. _I just need to put him in his place._

But then as he gazed at the lifeless face he’d crafted in the form of the one he’d once used so frequently it might as well have been ‘his’, his ‘Annatar’ face, he saw something like a shadow on the left cheek that should not have been there.

_No,_ he thought to himself.

_It can’t be_.

He tilted the head, handling the raiment like a life-sized doll – there, over the bone and at the corner of the eye: a crease, an imperfection in the smooth skin he’d taken for this purpose. Tipping the body away from himself in disgust the eyelid fell open.

The wrong colour of eye looked up at him, and he dropped the raiment on the floor. The skull clunked. He stood there still for a long time.

_What the hell am I doing?_

More annoyed than before now he picked the body up by it’s scruff and dumped it back on the table.

“Damn you, Lomion,” he muttered. “it’s fine the way it is. Who cares if a crease is there or not?”

And yet a little voice inside him said, quite particularly, _it matters_.

So he fetched a looking-glass from one of his cabinets of tricks and, with a quick scouring of the area to make sure no one – servant or spy – could see what he was doing, he willed the lock on his faceplate to unlock and gingerly pulled it open.

He stared for a long time at the face that looked back at him in the glass.

_It’s just an image,_ he told himself. _A projection. Why can’t I think of it another way, with the skin unmarred? Why can’t I shape it to my will the way I used to?_

He might have asked the same in regards to other things, but he already knew the answer. However, there was still a little time left. He’d end up delaying this venture back to the forest a little while longer, until the face of the raiment, at least, was put back in order.

He closed the latch on the faceplate again, and locked it into place.

Since it would take some time for that particular material to set, he supposed he might as well check in on Celebrimbor, and see if by some miracle he had decided to see sense. What else could one call surrender in his predicament but sense, after all? What was there to be gained by his continued obstinacy except some absurd sense of loyalty or honour? And what use were those things, one had to wonder. Any time Sauron had had the chance to ask he’d only been told that if he had to ask, he would never understand it – proving that the people preaching about such things were too stupid to have ever thought for a moment about what they were saying.

Loyalty. Honour. Love. And of course the mother – or in this case ‘Father’ – of them all in the eyes of elves: ‘ _estel_ ’. Trust. Try and actually think concepts like that through, and they crumbled into total gibberish.

The door to the cell opened before him, creating a small flow of air upon which Sauron heard the tail-end of parched whispers. The torches caught alight in his presence and their glow reflected off the remaining clear patches of skin on the elf currently pinned to the opposite wall.

“Who were you talking to, my friend?” Sauron called over, as he swept into the room. “No, no – let me guess, he begins with an ‘N’ and ends with being a rotting corpse stuffed in a stone box under a mountain.”

Celebrimbor rolled his red-ringed eyes. “You’re back,” he observed.

“A flying visit, I’m afraid,” Sauron replied. “I have an errand to run that will take me out of the area for a few days. Don’t worry, I’ll be back in plenty of time for the wedding, assuming you haven’t decided to call it off?”

“Where… are you going?”

Barely able to understand the words, Sauron brought some water to Celebrimbor’s lips and allowed him to drink before he answered.

“I wouldn’t worry about the where, if I were you. In fact if I were you I wouldn’t worry about it at all. I’ll have my servants check in on you from time to time while I’m out. They’ll see to your every need, I assure you.”

“… you’re a wretched creature, Annatar.”

“ _I’m_ wretched?” Sauron laughed. “What about you, Tyelpe? You look like something a cat brought in when it finally got bored. Though I shouldn’t be too concerned, I’m sure you’ll clean up well. I don’t suppose there’s anything you want to tell me, before I go?”

“Die and go to the Void.”

“No? Well, maybe I’m wasting my time then. But I had a few moments to spare before the preparations for my departure were complete. Who else should I choose to spend my free time with but my dear friend, the former Lord of Eregion?”

Celebrimbor managed a bitter snort. “Is there no one else… worth talking to… that you haven’t already killed?” 

“Very good, dearest, but you assume there was ever anyone else worth talking to to begin with.”

There was a pause there, and a slight narrowing in the elf’s eyes like he was considering something, but when he spoke at las his words were disappointing.

“… wretched creature.”

Sauron sighed. “You said that already, my friend.”

“Yes. But you seem even more wretched now… than before.”

A moment’s review of the few intervening words from one accusation of wretchedness to another and it wasn’t difficult to figure out what had changed in Celebrimbor’s seeming.

“Oh. Don’t tell me. I may control vast swathes of territory, gems and jewels untold, command armies and powers beyond that of any other creature east of the sea – but it all means nothing without friends to share it with, is that it? Dear, this isn’t a children’s book of fables and fairy stories along the lines of ‘The Fox who Learned Kindness’ and ‘The Wolf who Became Good’, though I’m sure ‘The Dark Lord Sauron who Learned Friendship’ would delight all the wee elflings and their simpering parents back in the paradise of Aman.”

Irritation flared, when he searched for the slightest flicker of amusement on Celebrimbor’s eyes, and found none. But he continued seamlessly.

“I had associations such as the ones you’re thinking of a long, long time ago. I can assure you, I don’t miss them. I don’t envy those I left behind. Why would I? Who’s even heard the names of more than a few of them in this part of the world? Most of the men east of here have heard of none of my kind but me – not even Arien or Tilion, whose efforts they see day after day. Why, in some parts I am better known than even the Valar – and what wretchedness is there in that, I ask you?”

“You’ll never understand.”

Sauron groaned, irritation rising. “Honestly, my friend, I expected better of you. I speak to you of what tremendous nobility there is in devouring the flesh of babies and when you asked how that could be, I’d only have to answer – ‘you’ll never understand’ and that would prove my case, would it?”

“It really… means that much to you? Being famous?”

“Any idiot can make themselves famous. But to make oneself great, and greater than one’s peers? What other meaning is there in existing? Loyalty? Love? Any other ornament the powers that be throw out to console their thralls that they will never amount to anything and thereby keep them docile?”

Another bitter snort from his captive. “If that’s what you think of those things then you couldn’t have really experienced them.”

“There you go again. Over and over, throwing these dead ends into the flow of conversation. I take back what I said about there being anyone around here worth talking to.”

“You’d prefer I became to you… what you were… to Morgoth?”

Now it was Sauron’s turn to laugh, bereft of humour. “Don’t mistake me, Tyelpe, I’m not that cruel.”

Nor would he have given a position so exalted to a mere elf, even a Prince, but he refrained from saying so. He supposed Celebrimbor might have become as close as any could have, if he would have acquiesced… but no. No, that would only happen if they married and this time he would not make the mistake of throwing his spouse away and forgetting about him.

This time, he’d have to send him to have their bond broken as soon as his victory was assured. That would be the smart thing to do. Although maybe, if he kept a closer eye on him he might keep him around for his own amusement, for whatever companionship he could give? Send him to Mandos at the first sign of trouble?

That might work. He’d have to see how it went.

“Not as cruel as Morgoth?” said Celebrimbor, as though he didn’t believe it. He’d never known Lord Melkor, of course. “And were you not loyal… to him?”

“Don’t mistake obedience for loyalty, my friend. And when serving under Melkor, obedience is also prudence, no matter how distasteful, the task.”

“Morgoth... ordered you to do things… that were distasteful to you?”

Tiring of the amount of time it was taking the elf to gasp these paltry phrases out, Sauron allowed him more water, this time from the flask infused with athelas.

“Now and again,” he muttered.

As soon as he said it he thought he’d better make some kind of elaboration to turn Celebrimbor’s mind away from what he had actually been thinking of, and the memory, _“I don’t have a spare year or two with which to hang him on the side of a cliff!”_ suggested a wicked enough diversion.

“ ‘ _Take Nelyafinwe down from his cliff and bring him prostrate before me, for today I wish to see him suffer in the flesh_ ’ “ he crooned, and smirked when Celebrimbor’s face twisted with hatred. “Not something I had to do often, but I already told you how boring your uncle was and to waste all that time when there was so much other work to do…” he clicked his tongue disapprovingly.

“Boring,” Celebrimbor repeated. “His suffering meant nothing to you?”

“I never liked him.”

“You have no remorse.”

Sauron wasn’t entirely sure if that was a question or not. He assumed not though, giving Celebrimbor the benefit of the doubt.

“Remorse? No. Although…” he started, and didn’t wonder whether or not these words were wise to disclose until they’d already left his lips. “… I wouldn’t say that if I could go back and change the decisions I have made, I wouldn’t do things differently.”

“Then you do have… regrets?”

“I could have kept up my deception as Annatar much longer if I hadn’t used the practice ring in the presence of the others, instead of waiting as I should have done for the completion of my upcoming project,” Sauron casually replied. “For instance. If I had, I could have taken control of that power immediately instead of having to hunt down all the scattered rings you worked on.”

Celebrimbor was not looking at him, but keeping his attention focused on a spot somewhere on the riven floor. There was a long pause before he answered –

“Did you never for a moment… consider making ‘Annatar’ real? Just… dropping all this pretence to ‘greatness’ and concentrating on making things of actual beauty?”

“About as long as you’ve considered dropping the pretence that this greatness is a ‘pretence’, I imagine,” Sauron returned swiftly. “I don’t honestly see the point in crafting mere ornament, however beautiful – and I assure you, my precious, my one ring will be a thing of great beauty.”

“You did almost give yourself up to the mercy of the Valar, after the War of Wrath,” Celebrimbor pointed out.

Sauron rounded towards the door, shaking his head.

“Well. I can’t say my efforts are having no effect on you, my friend – you become more tiresome by the moment. I’ve told you before, I’m not Melkor. I have no delusions about what my position is in the world and am fully aware that I am not its king, nor have I the power to contend against the forces of Valinor on my own, so yes – I gave that puffed up idiot Eonwe the impression that I would co-operate until the moment I saw I could safely escape.”

“So you never actually thought about turning yourself in?”

“I considered all my possible options,” Sauron corrected, waving his hand dismissively. “I’m sure that if I had thrown myself before them, begging for mercy, they would at least not have tossed me into the same pit as they had my former associate. But what then? The old prison cell in Mandos they once kept him in? Oh, but they’d be a lot less keen to let me out again after what happened when they freed him, don’t you think?”

He paused.

“ – not to mention I’d be surrounded by enemies if they did. Can you see me skipping merrily through the fields outside Formenos and waving to your Uncle Maedhros on my way to town? “Well met, Prince Nelyafinwe, beautiful day, isn’t it? Need a hand?’”

Celebrimbor did not react. He supposed he couldn’t blame him, that one was rather awful.

And if he was being honest, which he hoped was never, Sauron wouldn’t have feared Formenos half as much as Tirion if it had ever come out what had happened between him and Lomion – and if the Valar had taken him, then they would have figured it out. There were those among them who simply had that ‘way’ of knowing. The House of Feanor were a fearsome lot to be sure, and unforgiving too: but the House of Fingolfin, when they finally _snapped_ …

Well. Though the elves might have refused to sing of it, he’d peered into the minds of enough witnesses of the orc variety to know the dry accounts of history did Fingolfin’s end little justice. How an elf could have exerted such power over one of the Ainur – never mind that he lost in the end, that had been a forgone conclusion, but he should have never got that far.

In light of later developments, those at the forefront of Sauron’s mine, it was… unsettling.

“You’re clever though,” Celebrimbor broke the silence. “I know you could think of some way to get yourself back into the good graces of those across the sea.” He swallowed. “And what would you care then for my family’s hatred of you alone? You’d just point out that they had no room to talk.”

“Give your family a little credit,” said Sauron, though he was right in that that was probably along the lines of what Sauron would say. “Even if our body counts _were_ about the same, I think we both know mere slaughter wouldn’t be the only charge laid against me.” Again he tried to catch Celebrimbor’s eye; with no luck. “No. The path before me goes only in one direction, and the lines I crossed to get there were bridged with what are now no more than ashes.”

“And so thousands must suffer,” said Celebrimbor, mockingly, “so you can walk your path.”

“Yes, Tyelpe. Thousands must suffer, and none of them mean as much as a drop of water in an ocean to me.”

“Don’t call me that. You have no right.”

And there, he’d run out of steam if that was all he had to say in reply, or nearly had. Sauron was getting more bored by the minute.

“Are you always so rude to your host? No wonder Lord Rugni and his associates were always trying to get you out of their mountain as soon as they could.”

“Lord Rugni was even then a far worthier host than you.” Celebrimbor managed a single wheezed laugh. “I’d sooner marry him than you.”

Sauron clicked his tongue chidingly. “Now that stings, dearest. You’re getting better and better at these verbal barbs. I’m proud of you, _Tyelpe_.”

“Keep your damned pride – nothing else you have it in is anything to be proud of. So what if you have land if it’s a wasteland? So what if you have a thousand or a million thralls, if chance made you a thousand or a million times the more powerful creature than them? You think of the children of Eru as nothing more than insects – who cares if someone stands on an anthill and declares himself king of the ants? Somehow I don’t think your peers across the sea…” he inhaled deeply, “will gain that much respect for you, even if you do gain dominion over all Middle Earth.”

A little steam left, then. But so, so boring…

“You think I consider their respect worthy of my notice? I do this for myself, and no one else.”

“You’re sure about that?”

There was a long pause.

“… what did Morgoth say, in the beginning, to get you onto his side?”

Slowly, the steel-clad fingers on the hand that did not hold the flask began to curl in, metal gauntlet clicking against itself. The fist they made shook, perhaps not with anger alone. Of course one of the simpering Eldar would ask him a question like that sooner or later. They were always looking for some way to find the compassion the Valar had preached to them, even those whose memories of the preachings of the Valar and their mouthpieces must have been as distant as the moon.

But there was no path to that along those lines. There never had been. It made him angry to think about it, in fact. Angry and tired, somehow, like he had to travel all the intervening years between then and now to bring that time to mind.

With no quick comeback at the ready, the silence drew on, and every second that passed without a satisfactory response made him angrier, and the angrier he became the more difficult it was to consider a satisfactory response.

Until Celebrimbor spoke again.

“Won’t you tell me about it… my friend?”

He was sarcastic, but something in his voice suggested he knew he’d hit a nerve, and Sauron – the glimpse in the mirror from earlier still in his thoughts – stormed over, yanking his faceplate open furiously.

“You want to try to look into my thoughts, Telperinquar? See the deep dark secret behind my fall from grace? You really think it means a damn at this stage – when this is what it’s come to? Look me in the eye and tell me so – please, I beg of you.”

Celebrimbor swallowed – the malice in Sauron’s voice seemed to have startled him – but he answered bravely.

“Give me a light by which to look you in your eye, and I will do so.”

Around the chamber, the red glow of the torches reflected in Celebrimbor’s stare. Sauron was taken aback, and peered closer at the elf’s own eyes, frowning.

They glowed there unfocusing, unseeing.

_Damn_ , thought Sauron. _Damn, damn, damn, damn, damn…_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, that's that - thank you for tuning in, and thank you if you commented or left kudos too! In the next exciting installment, Sauron tries to persuade Lomion to agree to a divorce, and finds that perhaps he should have made him sign a pre-nup...


	9. Night Fifty-Six

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello, people reading this note! In this chapter, Sauron and Lomion discuss the potential dissolution of their unholy bond.
> 
> It ends badly. 
> 
> Enjoy! :D

“You seem preoccupied by something.”

Mairon turned his head away from Turgon’s empty throne, and smiled.

“I’m sorry, beloved. Just a project I’ve been working on. I’m afraid I might have ruined the material, to a degree.”

“So start again.”

A chuckle. “Impossible, in this case. But I can always work around it, it’s not the end of the world.”

Lomion’s eyes narrowed. He’d had apprentices in the past who’d tried to ‘work around’ their mistakes – had had to physically take whatever they’d been trying to make and consign it to the trash where it belonged, whether the maker cried or not, and had them start again. It was what Eöl would have done.

“If you weren’t willing to start again, why waste my time by telling me about it?”

With a sigh, Mairon reached across the table and put his hand over Lomion’s. “I can see you’re still upset about earlier. It was the wrong time to bring it up, I know – but then it’s difficult to hide what’s on one’s mind from someone as perceptive as you.”

“Don’t flatter me. I’m not all that perceptive, but with you I can’t help but know these things. We’re married, after all.”

Squeezing his hand a little, Mairon sat back in his chair.

They were in the main hall of the palace, though Lomion would have preferred to have this conversation in private, away from the prying eyes of servants whose masters knew what they heard almost as soon as they did. He couldn’t imagine Penlod or Ecthelion would spare him their looks of disapproval next time he saw them if it was generally known he’d had a furious argument with his own spouse in a public place – in the throne room, no less.

Of course that just might have been Mairon’s plan to keep him from making another scene, and he supposed he couldn’t blame him. It had been unseemly of him, after all.

_Very well_ , he thought. _Remain calm and collected, as a prince should. Whatever he says._

“Have you given any more thought to what we discussed?” Mairon asked.

“About breaking our bond, you mean?”

Mairon hesitated. Then, “Yes. About breaking our bond.”

“So that you can marry the kinslayer.”

“ _Son_ of the kinslayer, dear, give me some credit. Partly, yes. Partly so that we may be free of a bond neither of us wanted. You know it’s not exactly the thinking of your people that an elf should ever be joined to another against their will. Every day we carry on like this – “

“But I’m not unwilling now. I know things began unhappily; I was _there_.” He took a deep breath. “But they aren’t the same anymore. I couldn’t have built this city without you, and I do like to think that you’ve also benefitted from our union.”

“Lomion, that was never in question – “

“Right. And if you did feel I’d been inadequate in any way I’d have hoped you’d explain it to me, so that I could correct myself.”

“Lomion…”

He didn’t like that tone of voice. “Because I would. Show me something he’s made that you think is better than what I can do and I promise you I will best it. You liked my design for your ring, didn’t you?”

“Very much so. A minor tweak or two and I will begin acquiring the materials – “

“Tweak?” the word was a bane of his existence. Mairon knew that; he couldn’t stop himself from grimacing at his mistake.

“… daeronic runes just aren’t appropriate in context dear – “

Lomion made an annoyed sound and shifted away from him.

“ – you know they’re seen as the script of the dwarves, and this is a ring for a Maia – “

“On a curved surface, in the area you’re talking about – “

“The Tengwar alphabet was developed, at least, in the home of my people – “

“ – the ratio between the width and circumference of the ring – “

“I’ve already plotted out how it would look, elongated some of the ascenders and descenders from the classical style they taught you, it fills the space without looking cramped, I promise you – “

“ – if you knew the first thing about the spacing of letters – “

“That’s more than a little unfair, Lomion; I’ve known a few master calligraphers in my time. But let’s set aside the ring for now. I told you before, it has nothing to do with your talents and abilities.”

He said that, and yet in Lomion there was a terrible feeling that seemed to make the light lessen around them – and Mairon looked around, not nervously per se, but grim, and it seemed the shadows were indeed creeping further into the room far faster than they should have been.

_It’s always like this_ , Lomion couldn’t help but think. _I never_ did _anything wrong, and yet it was still always like this._

“… I love Celebrimbor. He is the One I wish were always by my side – you know what I mean by that, I think. And I will always hold a place in my heart for you – don’t think you are unloved, but if there is someone out there waiting for you it is not me. It would be unfair for them too, to meet you while you were wed to another.”

As if that would ever happen.

“But that’s it, isn’t it? You do think you are unloved.”

_Your mother never loved you._

_Only I ever did or ever will._

Lomion swallowed, glancing over at the throne. “Not exactly.”

“Is that why you fear to travel across the sea? You think you will find less acceptance there than you have here? Sweetheart…”

Shaking his head, Lomion reached for something that could divert Mairon’s attention from this thing he did not wish to think about, again.

“It can’t be that easy for a marriage bond to be made and broken anyway, it unites us soul to soul.”

Mairon smiled. “No need to worry on that account, my dear, if Finwe’s bond with Miriel had not been broken so that he could marry Indis, then you would not be sitting here today.”

That only made Lomion scowl, seeing in his head the earlier branch his great-grandfather had grown, the limb that led to Curufin’s son – his rival, who he’d never even met. What an annoying person.

“Well, I know nothing of any of them,” Lomion said dismissively.

But Mairon frowned, like he’d given something away in his tone if not his words, and maybe even in them.

Then, as if to intentionally work against him, he heard that voice on the wind, echoing around the corridors of the great stone tower.

“ _The Lady of Blacklock Clan stood before He  
Her forehead was touched to the floor;  
But the Maker of Durin’s kin laughed like a boy,  
And beckoned the girl through the door_.”

He looked around sharply, but Eöl was not in the room. Mairon also craned his neck around as if to spot him, sighing with annoyance.

“Don’t worry, my love. He won’t come near as long as I’m here. My servant is keeping him busy again. It was only one of his magpies sent to pester us.” He huffed. “Tiresome fellow.”

_“ ‘Behold, ye fine jeweller,’ he said to the maid;  
‘Before us is set a great task;  
To imbue half a sky with the glow of one bloom -  
Do you think you can do what I ask?’ “_

“Your prospective mate’s father is any better?” asked Lomion.

Wine halfway to lips, Mairon almost snorted into it. “That’s one thing to take into consideration.”

He seemed to take something else into consideration, when he tilted his head.

“I wonder… if we were to go ahead with this, it would only have been the second elven marriage bond broken that I know of. But then, I haven’t had much word of what’s been happening in Aman over the last few thousand years.”

_Thousand?_

_…_

_…_

_… he is exaggerating._

“ – and it occurs to me: beg for his life to be spared out of distaste for elves killing elves Lady Aredhel may have done, for your father, but remain married to an elf who killed her while trying to murder her son… well, I never met your lady mother in person, but it isn’t difficult to see her asking the Valar for a ‘divorce’ after that faux pas.”

Lomion remained perfectly still. He and Mairon were married, after all. He only had to ask to know.

“Ah.”

“Ada says she wanted to marry someone else.”

“The gallant Celegorm, I imagine? I remember the rumours. Quite prevalent back in the day – I’d heard about it even before we met. Almost surprised me that you weren’t the son of Celegorm, but then he was still chasing after Thingol’s daughter long after your birth, so I really shouldn’t have been.”

A kind of tension sprung up in Lomion’s hands and they trembled on his lap. He again remembered Salgant mentioning that, Ecthelion sternly warning him. It was inappropriate to talk about his mother like that. His eyes narrowed again, stilling Mairon just as he was about to say more.

“… but those rumours of inappropriate affection between cousins were quickly transposed onto another couple,” he went on, perhaps instead of something else. He sounded oddly… bitter. “It was ridiculously easy to do so. Anyone who remembers what they used to say about Celegorm and Aredhel now never mentions it, or at least never commits it to writing – which they would not have done back then either. Imagine there being record of one saying such things of the High King’s daughter, or later his sister.”

Lomion imagined his family would not be very happy about that. Mairon continued.

“But you say your father thinks it was all true? His wife has left him for her cousin?”

“It was very unpleasant for him,” Lomion informed his husband shortly.

Mairon looked into his words deeply. “And you don’t mean because he felt betrayed or heartbroken by your mother’s decision to leave him, I take it?”

“As far as Ada was concerned, Nana had left us already.”

“Hmm.” The aborted sip of wine was finally taken. “Yes. Forging the bond in the first place was… difficult. I can imagine breaking it would be worse, especially in this case for your father. Your mother would have been properly prepared by the one who did the deed – Manwe himself, perhaps – as you would be if you were to go to him.”

“I’m not afraid of there being discomfort from the bond being broken,” Lomion asserted quickly. “Not for my own part.”

It was a lie, but it hardly did for a prince to whine like a child because he was afraid something might _hurt_. The principle of the thing was the real issue.

“For my sake then? You really put me to shame, my pet. Yes. You see, the Valar across the sea can but assume that your father, having decided not to follow Mandos’ call when he was cast from the city walls, remained here as a wandering _fea_ : slowly losing his grip on the life he once had, as is the way with most who refuse the call. Their memories of life become more and more difficult to hold on to, and as they disappear so too does the concept of what it means to be alive.”

Lomion understood this. For him it had happened while he still lived, and in an instant.

“Consumed by loneliness, no longer remembering whatever it was they feared from Namo’s judgement but still aware of the call, the number of unhoused elves who remain for more than a few centuries after their refusal is very small. Those who deep down, in their souls, believe they need no one. I can see that they might believe your father such an obstinate fellow in that place. That he wouldn’t remember any wife or any bond enough to be all that distressed by its destruction – at least not enough for the Valar not to abide by the desires of the one who no longer wished to be bound.”

This was all making sense, certainly. Wasn’t it? That tapestry with its imperfect patches – the loom still skipped over things sometimes now, ever since the union. That alone should have been enough before to make him want to leave, he supposed, but that was a pre-Mairon way of thinking.

There was something… uncomfortable in everything Mairon was saying now. Eöl had died and refused the call of Mandos. This was true, he knew it. It should have destroyed his mind, yet Eöl was still quite cognisant of Lomion’s presence, his identity, their history together and even the songs he used to sing to him.

_“A peerless device did the Lady behold;  
A limitless beacon of light.  
To do as the Maker would have her, she thought –  
Would require much cunning and might._

_Yet set to this crafting the brave maiden would;  
For honour, for pride and for love;  
To draw out a light from a bloom to an orb  
That would travel the sky-ways above.”_

Eöl had died but he was still himself, singing in the distance. It hadn’t been that way before, in the old city. But it was this way now. There was something about _that_ that Lomion’s mind kept skipping over.

“But they don’t know that you are bound to me, a Maia, with the power to keep memories alive, and your father is bound to you – though in a different way. He retains too much of himself. They would have thought twice about it otherwise, I’m sure.”

“And you?”

“I’m sure it would not be pleasant for me to have our bond broken. We have been together a long time, after all. But if there is discomfort to be had it is only right that I be the one to suffer it, I bear the larger part of the blame for this situation, after all.”

“We’re married,” said Lomion. “We share the blame equally.”

“ – and I am a Maia. I can handle it better than an elf.”

He paused.

“It is also for Eöl’s sake that you should travel to Mandos, where I have no doubt he will follow you, since you are the only one he cares for. Even before he fell, his mind was damaged. The time spent between his death and yours made it deteriorate further. But the Valar can make him whole again – a father who might begin to be worthy of you. A father who instils comfort with his love instead of anxiety.”

Lomion shook his head without even considering it.

“No, Ada shouldn’t go there.”

“I can see why it would make you nervous. But it would not be like it was before. Lomion, my friend, you must trust me on this, it will be to the benefit of both of you.”

Trust.

_“And this despite causing a curious thing;  
Peculiar to think upon;  
For the flower’s light changed her hair’s look from that –  
Of a raven to that of a swan.”_

Trust… Mairon?

But Lomion remembered everything.

*~*~*~*

“I had another dream last night.”

Celebrimbor whispered in the darkness. Sauron’s abrupt departure from their conversation of two days ago had left him anxious; it hadn’t been difficult to realise why he’d suddenly left when the breathing of frightened human women reached him through the darkness. Medical aid only while their Master was away, he’d heard one say to the other – the humans were trusted more with that duty than the others, in that they were trusted at all. But humans, even those used to darkness under their heavy veils, needed at least a little light to see to their tasks by, and if there had been any light in the room then Celebrimbor would obviously have seen it.

Unless his eyes were ruined.

Sauron had not meant to damage him in this way, that was obvious. And because he hadn’t meant to do it, there must have been no quick-fix at hand to undo it.

“Oh?” he imagined Narvi answering. “What was that about then? Did you have to make a big speech to your troops and suddenly realise you were in your birthday suit?”

“That is what I usually wore to address the troops,” Celebrimbor told him. “Seemed to improve morale tenfold.”

“Ha bloody ha. The very soul of wit himself spouts off the perfect comeback to the set-up he himself imagined his opponent giving him. What a riot.”

Smiling, Celebrimbor turned his head towards his Narvi.

“I’m glad you think so. But it wasn’t as complicated as even that.” He looked up again, at nothing. “I was lying in the rocks, in the fire. I wasn’t moving – it didn’t hurt.”

“It was a dream, wasn’t it?”

“It was more than that. I’ve felt pain in dreams before. And I heard His voice.”

“That creature?”

That horribly soothing voice. A trickster in itself.

“He told me everything was all right.”

As the fire had swept over him. As the blackened body below his eyes began to shrivel. The skin to redden, blister, pop and sizzle.

“Of course he did.”

“Everything had gone well, and I should just stay where I was, and not move.”

“Just sit and burn.”

Sounded like something _he’d_ say to someone who was on fire.

“He told me to stay for his sake – no matter who I heard calling me away.”

Narvi paused before responding.

“When you say ‘calling you away’, do you mean your Mandos fellow?”

“Namo. Yes, that’s who he meant. Just stay there, burn to death, and never follow the call of Namo to his halls across the sea. And you know, just as I was waking up, I thought I heard the echo of a familiar voice through the flames. The same figure I heard all those years ago on the shore, saying we were doomed to end up like this, all along.”

“You didn’t take part in the crimes of your father. You didn’t deserve this.”

Celebrimbor breathed in. “Maybe not. But it was assured, when those deeds were done.”

He sighed.

“I’ve been afraid – of seeing my father again. Or of going to Mandos’ halls and finding out I won’t see him again. That he’s been consigned to eternal darkness for his crimes. Annatar said he thought the Valar would have spared _him_ that if he begged them for their mercy.” He turned again towards Narvi. “Do you think my father would have begged for mercy?”

“Do you have enough of that ‘trust’ left to think that even if he didn’t, he was shown mercy anyway?”

“What if he didn’t deserve it, though? What if my wishing that he was spared the worst is only the biased hopes of one who never truly suffered the horrors others did at his hands?”

Now Narvi gave him a sarcastic laugh.

“Who are we talking about again? Your father? Or his son?”

The corner of Celebrimbor’s lip twitched. “What remains of the ‘trust’ in my heart tells me that neither he nor I will be forever consigned to darkness for the misery we’ve caused. That we don’t deserve it.”

He took a deep breath.

“But still there’s something else in me that says we do. That that eternal pit is waiting for me.”

He could imagine Narvi considering this, straightening the plaits on his beard with a furrowed brow.

“And do you think, Sir Elf, that our good friend Annatar has the same voice in him, telling him it’ll be the pit for him if he ever goes to that place?”

“And is that the fate of one who doesn’t understand mercy? Is that not what my dream was telling me?”

“That,” said Narvi with a sigh. “And maybe that you’ll be leaving this place soon enough.”

In the now everlasting darkness that lived in that chamber, but couldn’t get into him anymore, Celebrimbor reached his hand out as far as the shackle would let him, barely feeling the pain of the removed skin on that wrist when it rubbed the iron.

He imagined Narvi took that hand.

“Yes. I think there’s something else about that dream as well, but… I’m too tired to realise it. Or maybe too stupid.”

Narvi didn’t deny that, of course.

“I wanted to thank you, my love. For staying here with me. I know it must be embarrassing to have a lover who slept with another freely later call out to you to hold his hand through his troubles. I’m sure a dwarf would have bellowed defiance steadfastly, right to the end.”

The other hand of the dwarf came and patted the one he was already holding, with a gruff harrumph.

“Well, what can I say?” his Narvi asked him. “We are married after all.”

*~*~*~*

“Do you remember that last solstice arts festival, in the palace garden?” Lomion asked distantly.

Mairon cocked his head.

“… yes,” he answered after a moment. “In fact, I thought of it as soon as you led me out there, the last time I was here.”

“Awful, wasn’t it?”

In Lomion’s memory the images shifting in the incandescent lights Itarille insisted on decking out her father’s garden with flickered and changed from easel to easel. Painters and printmakers. The craft shows were done on rotation, so it had been a while since they’d had the chance to take part, but there’d been no one new. No one of the old crowd with any new ideas either. Mairon shouldn’t have had to go when he could just pick the memories out of Lomion’s head and see much the same sort of thing from the previous shows, but it was very respectable of him. He had behaved perfectly throughout – one couldn’t fault him for it.

It was strange, now that he thought about it. The portrait the first prize had been awarded to – the so-called crowning glory of the event, the one that had made his uncle and every other elf present light up –

Well. It was strange, that that portrait should have been one of those small mistakes in Lomion’s mental tapestry. Ripped out; the edges hastily sewn together. Missing.

It was only a bad painting, though. No reason to waste his time trying to correct that mistake when there were ever more pressing issues.

“Don’t tell me you can’t stand to rejoin your kin because you find their _artwork_ unsatisfactory?”

Lomion gave Mairon a long, hard look. He smiled.

“I apologise. I should not be glib in this situation, I know. Call it a defence mechanism of mine, if you will.” He paused for another sip of wine. “Am I to understand it that you don’t trust me? You shouldn’t, of course, I tore your mind to shreds once upon a time and used you to wreak untold destruction and devastation. The only reason you remain attached to me at all is that I erased your former feelings; manufactured love and devotion in their place. Even the degradation of my hold on you that time has wrought hasn’t killed that love, for love is very difficult to kill.”

_Your mother doesn’t love you._

_Your mother never loved you._

Mairon sighed, putting his chalice back on the table. The click of the metal on the marble resounded throughout the vast, empty hall, making it seem all too huge for a mere two people to be sitting in.

Then there was a knock at the main doors, and Bunny let himself in.

“Tithellon!”

Lomion didn’t move. He waited for Bunny to hop clumsily along the floor until he was at his side, and only then helped him onto the table so he could pour himself some wine. He could tell Mairon was annoyed by this interruption, but then there was no reason for him to be so, what with Bunny being the one to keep suggesting that maybe Lomion should leave for the land across the sea as Mairon said.

“… Lord Bunny Rabbit,” Mairon greeted reluctantly.

“Mairon,” said Bunny. “Do you still want Tithellon to go to Mandos?”

“As a matter of fact,” Mairon replied, “I do. And I’m running out of time, so I will make my case this one last time and pray for your understanding. Lomion, this bond between us was never meant to be. It was the design of Melkor, whose only thought was to torment and destroy your family and your uncle’s kingdom. You do not owe me anything. What is between us is a perversion of the spirit of a marriage, even if it conforms to the letter of its definition, and by it you have been made the victim of a terrible crime – perverted further in the minds of your people who do not understand what has happened to you or why you did the things you appeared to do because of my own lies. This city you have constructed is a dream, a fantasy; when you leave this place it will come with you, and no one will be left here without you, for there is no one here but you and your father – and he _will_ follow you. Your people’s true home is across the sea – you know this, only your father disagrees and he is mad. The duty you fear you would do disservice by leaving in fact lies in Aman with your family. No one is helped by your refusal to depart. My prince, you must see the reason in this logically, though the heart that has been twisted by a violation performed upon you by your enemies still tells you otherwise.”

He took a deep breath.

“Turukano is not coming to this place. To see him and your mother again you must find the courage to make one more journey – to end this farce of an existence and go to your true home. You have done nothing wrong, Lomion. You deserve this peace.”

His golden eyes were lit with sorrowful passion, not one thread out of step with the heartfelt sympathy in his voice, so that it seemed that in the pain he felt for Lomion and for their situation true tears were struggling past the mask of unfathomable power, and craft.

He was so beautiful. Lomion did not budge.

“I don’t believe you.”

In an instant, the beauty evaporated, and the mocking nature returned to his husband’s voice, worse than ever before. “Don’t you, my love? That is a shame. Whatever could I have done to make you distrust me so?”

He spoke rhetorically but Lomion intended to answer anyway. There were, of course, a number of things with which he could. This was the one his people called ‘Deceiver’ after all. However, there was only one in particular that Lomion considered relevant to the situation.

“You said you want to marry the kinslayer’s son. But you don’t. I know you.”

Now Mairon said nothing, just stood there staring down at him furiously. But amidst the rage in those eyes that Lomion’s defiance had caused was something else – something more vulnerable.

Lomion continued.

“I know you. You don’t want to marry him.”

“Lomion, my feelings for Celebrimbor – “

“It’s not about your feelings for him. It’s who you are. You never wanted to marry me. You only did so for one reason. Do you think I can’t see what’s going on? Your agitation, your ‘problems’ outside these walls and the weapon you would make to address them, your sudden need to marry when you were lovers with this person for however long in perfect happiness?”

Mairon took a deep breath and rubbed the bridge of his nose. “You deny it, Lomion, but you are as perceptive as they say.”

“I don’t think I’d need be all that perceptive to know the one whose soul is bound to mine. You want a secret from the kinslayer’s son, a secret that I’m sure holds great power. And he doesn’t want to give it to you.”

“I confess, he’s not exactly jumping at the bit.”

This was a serious matter, so Lomion left a pause he hoped was long enough to instil that impression on his husband, though he did so with a quickening heartbeat, because there was a kind of aura growing about Mairon now; one that spoke to him of great danger. He managed to keep control of himself however, when at length he replied:

“You know I can’t let you go through with it.”

For some time, there was so little change in the stillness of the room that it made it difficult to say how long the silence lasted. Bunny looked from Mairon to Lomion and back again, waiting for some kind of reaction with one paw creeping towards his face in a worried gesture.

It might have been only a moment when Mairon spoke again.

“Can’t you, now?”

_Stay calm,_ Lomion told himself. _He will be angry, but stay calm. You swore oaths._

“I don’t think my uncle would like it if I laid the way for you to rape my cousin so you could sack and pillage his mind in aid of your ambitions.”

“Mm,” said Mairon. “Mustn’t upset dear Uncle Turgon, must we? Although he might not care when all is said and done – we are talking about the son of the kinslayer who left your mother and her family to die in an icy wasteland, and who slaughtered your father’s people like some rats he’d found in a storehouse.”

“As you said, ‘the son of’,” Lomion pointed out. “Not ‘the one who’. And even if it had been, Ondolinde is the greatest stronghold in Beleriand of the perpetuation of the direct teachings of the Valar. Compassion, forgiveness, mercy…” he waved his hand. “… and the rest.”

Mairon laughed.

“Come on, _Maeglin_ , we both know you’re not the most devout soul in this city – and that’s taking into account how many people actually are in this city.”

That was true. However, even though Lomion would have refused this request solely so as not to disappoint his uncle in his conduct, that wasn’t the only reason. Whatever else he might have been skipping over, his mind was still more or less restored.

“Even so,” he said. “What you suggest is still, to my mind… not right.”

When Mairon only laughed louder, Bunny jumped back, overbalanced onto his rear and then leaned against Lomion’s chest, as if either to protect or seek protection. Mairon rounded away and began to pace, now like a predator trying to intimidate its prey.

“No. No, I will admit it: rape, forced marriage, and whatever word that no one ever thought to coin that might describe what I did to you – these things are very wicked and bad, and I am wicked and bad for having done them and for planning to do more.”

Lomion curled his fingers around the edges of his clothing. Not only was his anxiety increasing but he also didn’t like to see Mairon so upset.

“ – but here’s the thing, princeling: so what? So what if my plans for Telperinquar are evil? In popular opinion, my plans are always evil. You can’t stop me from committing evil deeds. I’ll probably have a few underperforming thralls fed to my orcs as soon as I get back just because you’ve put me in a bad mood. You think it will make a difference even if you do manage to protect him? I’m still going to torture him to death. He’ll probably suffer more for your self-righteousness in the end.”

He approached the table again, one palm flat upon it, leaning over Lomion’s shoulder.

“You can do nothing. Nothing except warn the Valar of my intentions, as I believe that if they knew that I would forcibly marry an elf, even _those_ useless fools would act. What’s the alternative? I kill the bastard anyway and you remain here, alone, for the rest of eternity?” He laughed, “Pardon me, not alone – your dear Ada will always be here with you, I’m sure.”

That… was not a pleasant thought. But as soon as Lomion’s heart began to falter, Bunny piped up from his lap –

“And me! I wouldn’t leave Tithellon. Not ever!”

Mairon’s eyes caught alight again, but not with sympathy, and in the space of one galloping heartbeat Lomion recognised the same intent that he had seen in Eöl, all those years ago when the flames of his father’s forge had separated him from Bunny the first time. Just as Mairon made a grab for the rabbit Lomion scooped him up and dashed toward the throne at the end of the room, and the tree behind it.

But Mairon did not follow him. He held up his hands in a peaceable gesture, though the expression around his mouth was tight and agitated.

“I beg pardon, I beg pardon,” he said. He _sounded_ sincere. “No, you have your Bunny too, clearly. Whatever could have possessed me to forget _him_? But I was given to understand you had _some_ regard for other members of your family, my sweet. You will never see them again if you refuse to leave. You do understand that, don’t you? It’s why your father urges you to stay, because he doesn’t _want_ you to ever see them again, or be corrupted by their evil ways of not terrorising their own children.”

He snorted at his own last jab at Eöl’s character. Lomion remained still by the throne, wondering if Mairon would be able to climb the tree as fast as he could. Even if he couldn’t, would avoiding Mairon until his temper had cooled really be sufficient now? His heart was beating faster still. Yet even then, he was glad that Mairon had made that jab at Eöl’s character. Someone should have.

Unfortunately Mairon, who really was perceptive, noticed.

“You agree,” he stated, pointing briefly at Lomion from below the dais. “You want to see your mother and your uncle again, I know you do – and there will be others too, others I suspect you’re more likely to get along with than the shallow, pious acolytes of Turukano.”

Lomion opened his mouth reflexively to tell Mairon not to insult his uncle’s people, but the words would not come. Mairon continued uninterrupted.

“But you have things to tell him, don’t you? Reports to make. You’ve been sending them to no one for years now, how many do you think have passed?”

A long pause followed. At length –

“… five. Ten, maybe.”

“Try multiplying that figure by a hundred or so; you’ll be a little closer.”

… that was a lie, it had to be. Mairon was always lying.

“Don’t believe me? But you know you have gaps in your memory – those things I didn’t just unravel, but obliterated. You want those back? You have to leave me behind. And there are important memories in there, let me assure you.”

Things like the subject of a portrait? Lomion doubted it.

He doubted it very much.

“I remember enough,” he said.

“Enough!?” cried Mairon. After a short laugh, he peered deeper – suddenly, like he’d caught a glimpse of something that worried him. “What is it? What do you remember?”

He even sounded concerned for his sake again, which gave Lomion reassurance in the back of his mind that beneath the fury of this current eruption Mairon still cared for him as he always had. But most of his attention was on the question Mairon had asked, and especially because he had been thinking of the answer since his husband had returned.

It was not something he wanted to talk about. He had forgotten the portrait that had won the competition that night, but he remembered the rest of the night all too well. Everyone had been there. The king, of course; his daughter, her idiot death-bound husband and all twelve of the lords of the city; laughing, singing, drinking – but for the first time, Mairon was there too. He made the whole event so much less…

… uncomfortable. And then –

“Lomion?” Mairon took a slow step closer. “What is it? You can tell me, sweetheart – you can tell me anything. Whatever it is that you fear I can defeat those fears, I promise you, and see you to a glad reunion with your family. All I need is your confidence.”

Lomion sighed. It had finally come to this, then. It was inevitable that it would have. Still, the words would not come easily. He clutched Bunny a little tighter, preparing himself for the consequences of what would surely anger an already furious Mairon

_Right. He thinks he can manipulate my heart to outweigh my head while making me believe I have chosen the opposite, but I must disabuse him of that hope, however shameful it will be for me._

_Remain calm_ , he told himself again. _You must do this. It is the correct course of action, so you must_.

“I’m not afraid,” he told Mairon plainly. “I am… “

A pause. He breathed in and out again.

“… resigned. I asked you if you remembered the last solstice for a reason. Not because of the portrait, but because of the people. Do you remember what happened when the festival was done?”

The look on Mairon’s face turned suspicious. Lomion knew he remembered, of course, and had a feeling that as the one who knew him best, Mairon also knew exactly what Lomion was going to refer to.

But he didn’t know he knew yet.

“Do you remember when the lanterns were extinguished and the candles burned out, and the portraits were brought inside for the night and the King and his close family retired? We stayed behind to oversee. You had us sit on one of the tables from which they’d served the wine and we had a glass. And just before dawn, Ecthelion came and sat down next to us.”

There. Mairon inhaled heavily, as one preparing to receive bad news. He remembered, but Lomion continued anyway.

“… he’d never done that before.”

In his mind he could see it even now, the creeping of the sun’s rays at the lowest part of the encircling mountains, the nearly empty garden and the white face of the palace behind him – Ecthelion, without his usual golden-haired partner for once, approaching slowly and sitting beside him with a smile in his eyes.

Ecthelion was usually cold to him. He didn’t go so far as being all but insubordinate, as did some of his peers, but he never pretended to like Lomion either, as did some of the others. He was one of the lords Lomion had more respect for, even now.

“Do you remember what he said?”

*~*~*~*

_The coolness of the first summer morning’s breeze._

_The beauty of the billion stars in the dark blue sky._

_The touch of the hand on his shoulder he would normally have shrugged off, but now accepted, like a jolt of static._

_His head turned, his lips pulled into a smile, his mouth opened and words he had not thought of came out._

_“Lord Ecthelion, good evening – or morning, I should say.”_

_The familiar face. The words._

_“Prince Lomion.”_

_His name. More words from his own throat in reply._

_“How did you enjoy this year’s contestants?”_

_“With great pleasure, I must admit. I heard a few grumbles that the winner was a given due to subject alone, but if a little kissing up went on I can’t say I mind too much. To think how brightly that subject’s grandfather lit up to see it, for one; with all he’s been through I would cherish any such moment.”_

_“I think we have my cousin to thank for that,” his voice said, Mairon said. “The King’s happiness is ever in her thoughts.”_

_“It is,” he heard Ecthelion say, “but I think I saw him relieved as well as pleased by something else tonight.”_

_The words were heard. The words were known. The meaning was lost on him, as Mairon tilted his head for him in a pretence of interest._

_Ecthelion spoke again._

_“I’ll be brief. You may think I’m being impertinent in saying what I’m about to say, my prince, but I suppose I can be impertinent once in a century or so.”_

_He smiled._

_“I don’t know what’s come over you to make the change we’ve seen in you recently. But I am glad for you. And proud of you – we all are. Your kindnesses to the artists and even the guests tonight is something I don’t think any of us would have thought to see from you this time last year.”_

_Then his hand was on Lomion’s shoulder again._

_“This is the prince we’ve wanted to see in you all along, Lomion. Well done.”_

_The words were heard._

This is the prince we’ve wanted.

_The words were known._

This is the prince we’ve wanted.

_The meaning…_

This is the prince we’ve wanted.

…

…

… Well done.

_MAIron waS MAKing evERyTHING BETter._

*~*~*~*

Slowly, the golden-haired Maia shut his golden eyes.

“Yes,” he said, at length. “I remember.”

“He was right,” said Lomion. “They were all much happier with the way I was after I came back from Angband.”

“… Lomion.”

“But you were the one doing all the talking at that point. You had to, because otherwise I couldn’t do anything but just lie there. So really, it was you they all liked, more than me.”

“… Lomion.”

“The second to Morgoth himself, but you were preferable to me. I didn’t really realise it until later. But I understand now.”

“… Lomion…” Mairon sighed his name out with exasperation, but even when Lomion, numb and yet in his stride, gave him the space to continue – he had nothing more to say.

So Lomion finished his thoughts on the matter as calmly as he could manage.

“Mairon. I make people unhappy. I always tried to do otherwise but I think in the end it couldn’t be helped. That’s why things have turned out like this. It’s for the best. Like my father always said.”

Sensing the mirror of his own resignation in his husband, Lomion felt free to add –

“Perhaps you, more so than anyone else – you would know the answer. Why would anyone insist on going to a place where all they cause to those around them is misery?”

The silence seemed to last forever.

At last –

“Am I to understand that is your final say on the matter, my husband?”

Lomion bowed his head. “That is my final say.”

“Then I suppose there is only one direction we can go from here.”

Mairon was casual, but dangerously so. What followed gave Lomion barely enough time to begin to feel apprehensive.

From one moment to the next the bond, that always retained some presence in his awareness however small, was suddenly like a great black claw inside his chest, inside his mind, inside the cord of his spine. His vision blurred, his balance shattered, and he fell back with a cry that quickly turned into a scream.

On a rational level, he soon realised how angry Mairon was – for this time he did not shoot first at the heart to prevent Lomion from experiencing distress. He aimed directly at his thoughts, so that the command –

Accept the call.

_Accept the call_.

_Accept the call!_

ACCEPT THE CALL – resounded like thunder in his brain. This time Lomion could feel it happen; the twisting of his will, the force that moved him against his will – this grinding, tearing sensation in his head like the claws of the dragons he’d seen in Mairon’s dreams raking across the polished stone of falling cities.

He could sense the responding distortion in his own city, the one he had spent all this time building, as houses and streets he’d designed and fashioned began to implode, as trees crumpled, and beside him the familiar voice crying – ‘Tithellon, Tithellon!’ faded in and out of being drowned from his ears by an enormous rushing sound, and the beckoning of Mandos that he had long since tuned out of his mind began to swirl back into focus.

It happened very quickly – hardly enough time passed for him to think more than ‘ _No, no, no, no, no!’_ at the truth of what was happening, but more than enough to feel the desperate, all-consuming fear of a process that could utterly destroy him. Again.

ACCEPT THE CALL. DO. AS. I. _SAY!_

That terrible impulse. There was no fighting it, the bare bones of a wall between him and Mairon that hadn’t existed the first time was nevertheless as a paper shield; each horrible piercing claw on that controlling hand ripping down the sheet, through his skin, through his core – it wasn’t physical, but somehow it was white-hot. Melting him.

… into liquid.

_No, no, no, no_ –

…

…

…

…

…

…

…

…

…

…

…

There was a flash.

And Lomion opened his eyes back in the throne room, on his knees, looking at Mairon, who was struggling to get up like he’d been dealt a heavy blow.

He groaned in pain. Lomion could hear something like the cracking of ice all around him. He uncurled himself, and looked down in horror at the five open slashes that had been cut across his own body.

No blood flowed from these wounds, but he could see a light shining through them that he knew, without understanding what was happening, should never have been seen in this place.

“What…” Mairon gasped. “What did you… ?”

These lights, these wounds Mairon had cut into him – Mairon – when they were supposed to be married – all because of – !

Lomion’s fists clenched. He saw Mairon’s shocked confusion, saw him looking around the palace that was unshaping itself click by awful click – when Lomion had worked so hard on it! – the arched doorway that suddenly slanted to one side, the column that bent in the middle for no reason.

“You…” Lomion breathed.

This was not – this was – he couldn’t think – they were married! – this wasn’t –

“You… _hurt_ me!” he managed to express.

Mairon said nothing. His frustration was fast turning to fear.

Lomion couldn’t think. It was almost like before. And before, the one who had helped him remember himself had been…

Had been…

He screamed.

“AD _AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA_!”

And his voice carried far, far into the world around them. They could all feel the unsettling of the air.

“Uh oh,” said Bunny.

The tree behind them cracked and split down the centre. Mairon raised himself up, backing away. But he looked to Bunny for explanation. And Bunny said:

“Muindor is angry now.”

*~*~*~*

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to everyone still giving this story a shot. In the next chapter, we'll find out who Bunny means by 'Muindor', though I have a feeling many will guess the answer in the interim... Also, other... stuff... will happen. :D


	10. Night Fifty-Seven

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello, my excellent good friends! 
> 
> In this chapter, a bunch of craziness happens, and Sauron loses his shit. Well, that's what happens when you marry into Eol's family, I guess...
> 
> Enjoy!

Muindor?

Who the hell did the stuffed rabbit consider as its ‘brother’ of all things? Lomion had only had the one ridiculous toy growing up!

_Idiot,_ Sauron cursed himself. _Idiot, idiot, idiot. You lost your temper. You lost your temper just like_ he _would have – now look where it has gotten you!_

Oh, he should have had the patience to explain – explain to Lomion what no one had bothered to before, what the thick-headed elves of Gondolin were too dense to realise, without having it spelled out directly for them. To explain that if a child had had no experience interacting with others of their kind then they would not _learn_ how to interact unless it was _taught_ to them, as one would teach a child.

Sauron knew. All those experiments. Children placed in cells in the darkest depths of Angband. Given only basic food and warmth while they’d grown into adults, food thrown in through a chute, warmth that travelled through the walls they never saw the outside of, nor let in the sight or sound of others. It had occurred to him once that with no influence at all from their own people he could instil these subjects only with love and loyalty to his own cause, but the results had been less than ideal. Not a single elf had survived such a rearing, and the men he grew in those conditions were less than beasts when fully matured.

Obviously it was not exactly the same for Lomion, but still Sauron understood better than brave Ecthelion and his ilk why their prince had been so impersonable, even after decades, even after centuries of living in their paradise. And of course, those soft, big-hearted elves would have wept to hear what he knew, gathered his precious Lomion into their arms and fallen over their sanctimonious selves to work at building real bonds with him.

But he hadn’t explained that. Why should he have had to? With the power he held over Lomion he didn’t need to.

And yet, where had all that resentment come from when he’d lost his temper and lashed out like that?

And why had it turned out like this?

Who… ?

“You shouldn’t have done that,” the repulsive monstrosity of a rabbit told him. “You shouldn’t be horrible to Tithellon.”

Sauron glared at it for only a split second before looking back at the wide crack that was travelling up the trunk of the tree, breaking it apart. Something was about to squeeze out of that crack, he could feel it, but who or what –

Sudden and silent, the onslaught commenced: a swarm of swift magpies, erupting from inside the tree like wasps from a battered nest. At first he heard no sound, not even the flapping of wings, and somehow it meant that it didn’t click for him that this tiding was real – or as real as anything would get in this place.

He flung his arms up in front of his face just as the lead bird collided, and then the room erupted in the cacophony of harsh cawing and rush of feathers beating against the air that such an attack should have engendered in the first place. Bird after bird swooped against him – but as soon as he realised he was under attack it was over, and the tiding passed, flying up onto perches far above their heads as they jutted out as if on command from the formerly so uniform ceiling.

What the hell _was_ that!? Sauron swirled around to watch them land, just a little too fast to have been mistaken for real birds. With his mind he could count them in an instant: two thousand, four hundred and one individual illusions – messages. Eöl?

The magpies were Eöl’s signature. He could even believe the spirit could have the power to send such an illusion against him. But why would the rabbit call Eöl ‘ _muindor’_?

Then as he looked back toward the great tree, he suddenly recognised its form.

Fear froze his mind before he even realised where this recognition came from. For that reason the realisation came all the slower. Two steps further back from the dark trunk the great stone block in front of it that stood in for Turgon’s throne cracked and crumbled and he was left looking only at a huge dark tree with a wide, dark hollow in its trunk.

The same wide, dark hollow he’d stepped into to get to this city in the first place. It was the spitting image of the real tree that protected the object that housed Lomion’s spirit. And as for the object –

That was now here too, right behind the throne where it had always been, within the same mind that dwelt within it in turn.

Anguirel.

Here its hilt had not decayed and its blade shone like new, obsidian black with an even blacker aura around itself. Sauron found himself backing further and further away, even as a little voice inside him protested – _it’s only a sword forged by a lunatic! The prophecy of Melkor’s ultimate defeat is nonsense and this isn’t even the sword mentioned in that prophecy, but just its twin! This is ridiculous!_ – yet _something_ had pushed him out of Lomion’s will and Lomion hadn’t the power to do that on his own. Nor, by any means, could Eöl have done it.

_That doesn’t mean a sword could! It’s a sword! It can’t do anything!_

The sword trembled slightly.

_It’s a sword. At best it contains an impression of the will of its creator, it does not have a mind of its own and it certainly has no power of its own!_

Then with a small clink, it lifted itself out of the ground, and hung in the air, still. Sauron stared from it to the curled up Lomion, desperately trying to see how he was doing this, but he was still linked to his mind, and knew in his heart that Lomion was not doing this. This was a separate entity.

_But it’s not possible!_

As he continued to back away he came up against the table he had been sitting at before and almost stumbling over a seat like a fool he squared himself up and reached for the sword he had equipped his raiment with, pulling it from the real world beyond and into this dream, and with a hiss he asked Lomion –

“What is this supposed to be?! Lomion, what are you doing!?”

Lomion did not answer. He hunched further in on himself and sniffed, trying to hide the light of his soul that was spilling through the rent open outer ‘form’ where Sauron had clawed him with his mind. But the rabbit hopped a little closer to the sword.

“Muindor,” he addressed it. “You are very angry. Are you going to punish Mairon because he’s been bad to Tithellon?”

And Sauron lost his temper yet again: “Don’t use that name, you worthless nothing!” he snapped.

The rabbit flinched but Sauron regretted the outburst, for Anguirel thrummed with a high-pitched whirring noise, and began to creep closer towards him through the air.

“Muindor’s going to get you, Mai-ron!” cried the rabbit vindictively, pointing at him with its blunt felt claw. Sauron retreated further back from the sword without thinking of it, past the table and back towards the door. “He’s going to get you, and then you’ll be sorry you were horrible to Tithellon and me! You’ll see!”

_It’s a sword_ , Sauron screamed at himself again. _An apparition of a sword_ – but it wasn’t coming from Lomion – _it can’t have any real power! You have power, you do, not this illusion!_

But as the sword reached the bottom of the dais the floor began to crack outward from the hollow of the enormous tree, and dark, leafless branches grew out of the crack at fantastic speed. Sauron, his mind racing, went for the door to the throne room with the idea of getting some space to think through what was happening and how to fix it, and threw it open.

His stomach lurched. Beyond the threshold was nothing but the sheer cliff face of Caragdur, sinking down into a dark grey smoke.

Sauron’s hand tightened desperately on the door’s handle, transfixed by the sight of the straight drop down. He’d heard the cracking of the world outside as it broke beneath the strain on Lomion’s mind, but he hadn’t imagined it had gone so far.

_Fool,_ he told himself. _Why couldn’t you have just been patient!? You weren’t under the constraints of Melkor’s changeable moods – why could you not have worked on your princes over time!?_

Heaving himself backward, away from the edge, he slammed the door shut and turned back. There were other exits from the room but he no longer trusted where they might lead to, and Anguirel was closing in, floating silently along the aisle towards him as the ground shook and the branches creaked in their awesome growth, trailing across the floor and climbing up the walls. The rune tree on Lomion’s back lit up a brilliant scarlet, shining through the imagined fabric clothing it.

“Lomion!” he cried out desperately. “Lomion, I’m sorry – I didn’t mean to cause you harm, my love, forgive me!”

Even as he shouted the branches converged around the image of his husband, consuming or protecting him, and the glow from the image of his soul shining through the wounds and the runes on his back was smothered. The rabbit vanished with him, and all that was left…

… was the sword.

That high-pitched humming noise got louder. Sauron growled in frustration and focused his mind in non the apparition of the sword. It had to be Eöl, he thought, who was creating this illusion somehow. Eöl was the one Lomion had called for, after all, and Eöl was just an unhoused soul – no match for the power of the Ainur. He sneered.

“Is that you, my dear father-in-law?” Sauron asked it sweetly. “Did you miss me so much you got past my servant to come and see me? Come on then, tell me what you want, I’ll see if I can oblige it as a favour for a kinsman.”

The noise wavered and then grew in its intensity again. Sauron narrowed his eyes, reached his mind out tentatively to gage the elf’s mood –

Pain.

He heard the sound of metal striking metal, and the grievous sting of a sharp edge. Backing up into the door his hand flew up to his face and he was shocked to see the dark red stain upon his palm. Blood? How could there be blood?!

Finally, screeching out through the whine in the air like metal tearing under metal, seeming to needle his mind with ensuing orange sparks, there was a voice.

_“Get. AWAY!”_

Sauron was thrown back into the door, which splintered, and almost caved in enough to send him hurtling down the chasm on the other side as his sword flew out of his hand. More cuts, cuts on an image he created with his mind, tore open on his head, neck and shoulders, and on his hands and wrists when he flung them up instinctively to defend himself.

_“Leave this place!”_ the voice insisted.

The bombardment continued, and Anguirel came closer. Sauron tried to probe the mind of… of whatever it was that attacked him, but only met with the same result as before. The thing was a vortex of rage and hate, a primal fury – sharp and hard and cold. Every attempt to look at it for what it really was was reflected on the edge of a blade, and Sauron was left with nothing but the grim conclusion that this was not Eöl’s doing.

_A third party,_ he thought. _Another Maia exiled from Aman. A creature of Melkor’s creation._

_It cannot be the damn sword!_

_“Leave our home,”_ the voice shrieked at him, shaking the walls. _“Leave our family!”_

Family? “You claim this is your home and family?” Sauron shouted back. “Who are you? Don’t tell me you’re a sword, swords don’t have souls!”

The screaming intensified and shattered every window that had somehow remained intact so far, allowing the black branches to creep through with their creaking growth. In his head, Sauron felt parts of his body – the image? Or was it the raiment outside of it? – rip and come apart. But the voice did not stop its answer there.

_“I am the dark guardian who needs no wielder, who cannot exist but must, and shall endure and protect and curse alike – ever and always, dooming and doomed. I am tempered in the tears of the child you stole, defiler. I am his weapon. I am his warden.”_

“You can’t be – “

The sword was then right in front of him.

_“I am Anguirel.”_

“No!”

Suddenly a vision appeared before Sauron’s eyes, even as both were slashed across – or maybe the cuts had opened them to a different way of seeing. In his mind he saw a figure, swirling in a white light, striking out with a black sword into a mass of darkness.

_No,_ he wished desperately. _Not this. It’s just a silly fairy tale_.

The figure halted, moved, halted, stopping and starting like time itself was broken. A glare on the white armour of the figure almost completely obscured Sauron’s sight of this vision.

The light continued to shine, brighter and brighter, whiting out the sight of the swordsman before his blow could land within the black. The silence of the experience was consuming.

But as Sauron fought to return to his raiment to see if there was any refuge outside of Lomion’s dream outside the sword his and his father’s souls were tied to, to see if there was any indication as to what the hell was happening –

He heard the one sound that seemed to come from within the white space.

The sword struck another blade with a ring almost like a bell, which shook the entire world.

…

…

…

Sauron found himself falling backward out of the hollow of the tall tree, hitting the forest floor with a thump. He scrambled back, checking the raiment frantically for damage – there was none, of course, it had all been in his and in Lomion’s heads – and staggering to his feet with frustration.

What. The. _Fuck._

What was that vision? Something his attacker forced on him or a real window into the future? It had to be the former – unlikely as it seemed that this entity would have the ability to do that, since he wasn’t prone to episodes of foresight, but his instinct…

… _is probably exactly what that thing wanted you to feel_.

Breathing heavily, he clapped eyes on the filthy, forgotten form of Anguirel, standing straight within the roots before the hollow; straight and still. A motion his left made him look – and see Eöl’s spirit still in conflict with his servant. Playing with it, almost, with the way he danced around, no longer straining to attack. Sauron took another deep breath.

“My Lord!” the elder servant cried. “Did you get what you needed!?”

If he’d been closer Sauron would have broken his neck. “Not quite,” he muttered.

Eöl didn’t make a sound, but he was certain the ghost was laughing at him all the same. Could it have been him after all who was responsible for that catastrophe? Almost certainly he was the root cause of it, but Sauron just couldn’t see how he might have had the power…

And yet the signs of the dark elf’s power were all around. The bare branches of the surrounding trees were filled with silent magpies, all of whom were watching him. He looked back at the sword.

_It couldn’t have been a sword_ , he thought again. _Now, how do I –_

Then he heard the echo of that high whine again, coming through the trees. He looked back sharply at the sword, _it’s not the sword!_ – and saw no sign of movement, of course, because swords did not move on their own. If the sword really had some kind of consciousness then maybe, maybe it could move within a dream world, but not out here in the physical world, that was absurd.

Sauron tilted his head, watching the stationary blade a moment longer. It continued to sit there, fuming. He exhaled. _This is utterly ridiculous, I need to get back in there and try again somehow. How –_

He blinked. One of the lower hanging branches, now he was looking harder – was it closer to the hilt than it had been before?

He blinked again. There was a crack of moving wood. A silence.

The branch flung the sword out and in one blow it split the entire raiment he wore in two, straight up the centre.

The only thought he had in that moment was that the face he glimpsed reflected in the blade was absolutely _hideous_.

*~*~*~*

CLICK

Twenty-five. The sands in the hourglass flowed on and on.

“He’s coming,” Narvi warned, and then he retreated into the shadows.

Celebrimbor blinked his eyes open instinctively at the sound of the approaching footsteps and the malicious aura he could feel coming towards him, but apart from a few patches of shifting light it made no difference.

_Not as though I_ want _to see him anyway,_ he thought.

It would have been difficult to deny that his apprehension rose, in realising that Sauron was returning to his cell, even if he had sensed for some time now that the end was very near. There was always the possibility that the cretin would pull out some new trick at the last minute, and Celebrimbor would be denied the release of death after all.

There was always the possibility that he had been telling the truth, and he really could control Celebrimbor’s mind through forced marriage. But Celebrimbor doubted it.

Even far beneath the mastery of knowing the minds of others that his father had held, Celebrimbor could feel the bitterness and anger in the shadow that came his way. Could feel rage and desperation overflowing, hatred swirling, and something that was more vulnerable – something hurt, and maybe even afraid. Something important had happened in the last few days since Sauron had been away. Whatever errand he had taken to had gone badly, and Elbereth be praised for it, yet Celebrimbor couldn’t help but feel curious. Apprehensive too. If this was the end for him he was prepared, but for those still left to continue the fight…

The doors crashed open, sending a breeze across Celebrimbor’s face, and Sauron stormed in bellowing –

“Look at you, my beloved, still lying around like a useless lump. Allow me to predict the next lines that come out of your mouth – ‘You’ll never break me, you fiend!’, ‘I’ll die before I give you the rings!’ or best of all, ‘Narvi will always be my husband, not you, Mairon!’”

Mairon? Celebrimbor had been about to make a quip – and it was a shame he didn’t, since it was so rare good ones came to him immediately – but that stopped him short. He’d never heard Sauron refer to himself by that name, and it shocked him.

A sudden stillness in the air and he guessed that Sauron had shocked himself almost as much by using it. But he recovered quickly.

“Well, let’s save all that for now. My friend, I don’t mind telling you that I have had a rather bad experience today. I should have remembered, of course – the House of Feanor may burn the brightest but it is the House of Fingolfin that has always cut deepest.”

House of…

_Ereinion,_ thought Celebrimbor. _Gil-galad has struck him some blow – of course he has! Hah!_

“And yet, who would have thought… that damned elf and his tricks… ahh.” He trailed off with a deranged chuckle. “Still, there’s no use dwelling on it. Want to tell me where the rings are, darling? No? I’m shocked, Tyelpe, I really am. Where are we with that hourglass?”

There was a moment of silence. The sands fell pi-pi-pi-pi-pi-pi-pi-pi-pi-pi-pi-pi-pi-pi, and Celebrimbor held his breath.

“Twenty-five? Ugh. You know, I see no reason to wait another five days now that it has come to this.”

There was a great shattering crash in the shadows that made Celebrimbor flinch, and the sound of sand spilling out onto the floor.

He’d destroyed the glass in his rage. Good.

Sauron sounded slightly out of breath when he continued. “What do you think, my friend? Shall I undo your shackles and tie the knot instead?”

Fear shot through Celebrimbor – and yet for all the horror that was implied in Sauron’s words it was a fear short-lived. He did not believe that Sauron could bind him to himself against his will. He knew he was going to die, and though this would be more terrible a way by far than releasing his spirit of his own will – which he had thought he might have achieved before the sands ran out – the result would inevitably be the same.

_Namo,_ he prayed. _If I have earned any scrap of mercy from defying this monster, I hope you will accept me._

“Well, my lord?” Sauron prompted.

Celebrimbor gathered his meagre strength. “Sorry… I didn’t realise I was… permitted to speak. You seemed… quite content… talking to yourself.”

With a frustrated click of the tongue he sensed Sauron moving to the other side of the room and heard a sloshing sound of water. Then the darkness, brimming with hatred, moved closer again and he felt the rim of a chalice at his lips.

“Drink,” Sauron commanded. “You sound ridiculous, and in case you hadn’t noticed I’m beginning to get impatient.”

For a brief moment Celebrimbor thought he might defy his captor, but his tongue seemed to lap up the water of its own accord.

_Forgive me, Narvi_ , he thought, with a touch of amusement. _I was always weaker than someone like you deserved._

He heard the cup put down on the side after he’d swallowed a few mouthfuls and Sauron continued. “There. That can be the toast to our newfound happiness.”

“You don’t sound… happy.”

Sauron snorted. “Didn’t I tell you I wanted this no more than you?”

“I think it would be difficult… to want this less than me.”

“Hmm,” Sauron replied, “an obvious one, but I’ll give you points nonetheless, darling. And once I’m done with you, you’ll think you wanted it all along – if only I could make myself believe it too.”

There.

That last, throwaway fragment of a taunt. He’d said it as Celebrimbor would have expected him to, sardonically, falsely cheerful, mocking the idea. But whatever Gil-galad had done had shaken Sauron enough to let loose his emotions to the extent that he could feel, beneath a castle built of malice, in the darkest dungeon inside him – sincerity. The sense that this was really something Sauron didn’t want to do. Something too intimate for such an egomaniac.

Was that really the truth of the matter? Celebrimbor wondered. That what he threatened could be done, but he really didn’t want to? He thought of walking through the burning city, casually murdering his own people in the dream Sauron had sent him, the thoughts and feelings of contentment and reassurance Sauron assured him he would not be able to fight if this was done for real. Was this course of action something Sauron really believed could work?

_“Then he’s lying to himself,”_ his Narvi told him gruffly.

Celebrimbor agreed. But even now, he couldn’t help but feel… curious.

“Will it be… so bad? Being married to me? You sounded so cheerful about it before.”

The hand encased in steel gripped his face, turned it towards the place the dark creature was standing in. He could sense him looking into his ruined eyes through the slots in his helmet. Even now Celebrimbor knew he wouldn’t remove it.

A long silence followed, but Celebrimbor had realised he had all the time in the world by now.

“You wouldn’t understand,” said Sauron, in a tone Celebrimbor had never heard him use before. “Why would you? You’re only elves, all of you.”

_‘All’_ of them?

The moment was gone then, Sauron let out a long and clearly manufactured sigh before letting go of Celebrimbor’s face – but the feeling that there was something more than deceit in his captor’s words today lingered. Though he had no way of knowing, in his head Celebrimbor could imagine the helm that crowned that menacing armour downcast, the tall figure of the evil he’d let into his heart as a friend standing aside, dejected. He imagined it as if he could see him showing some kind of mortal emotion.

_“Of course he can make you feel that, even after everything,”_ the voice of Narvi reminded him. _“That’s why they call him the Deceiver. Keep. Your. Head, elf!”_

So Celebrimbor dismissed the picture from his mind. “Right,” he croaked out. “I’m only an elf. I couldn’t possibly fathom the mental prowess needed to realise how worthless the lives of others are. How the suffering of elves and men and dwarves is meaningless.”

Sauron chuckled. “Oh, I think you could – that’s not the difficult part. Many men, and even a few elves and dwarves have managed it.”

“Like Maeglin?” Celebrimbor asked. “Who you said you’d tell me about someday? Tell me how brilliantly you corrupted him – and intimate how you’d cast me in the same light?”

That was, apparently, the wrong thing to say.

“Maeglin?” Sauron repeated, incredulous and angry for some reason. “Maeglin Lomion? Yes, let’s discuss him, Tyelpe – why not?!”

The rage. The resentment. Celebrimbor had struck a nerve and left himself completely confused as to how the mention of that name could now, centuries after the named one’s death, could so suddenly release this fury from the dark lord he was trapped helpless beside.

“Here’s the great secret about our corruption of the Prince of Gondolin, my lord – it never happened. There was no corruption, no cultivation of the seed of evil, no darkness that lies in the hearts of all of Eru’s creations to turn to the advantage of the Shadow if we just find the right needle to prick them with. I didn’t have to test my persuasive skills with him, only marvel at the dumb luck of it – a lost child wandering straight into my arms and a city of elves too stupid to see such a child when the light of Aman didn’t shine within his face.”

He trailed off laughing, leaving Celebrimbor ever more confused with every word. This didn’t feel like a trick – perhaps because if it was then he couldn’t see its purpose, because he didn’t know what to make of the words, the disorganised ramble. It went on –

“But why should I say anything of the sort? We all know what happened – it’s written in all the histories and commentaries of history. It was the _kinslaying_ that was responsible for Lomion’s fall. Because the kinslaying was evil, and so someone with a tangential connection to it became evil. What other explanation does one need?” He chuckled more. “Oh, Tyelpe – Maeglin Lomion. You’ve no idea how little I would like to think of him. You can tell them all when you arrive, if they should ask, but will they understand any more than you do? I doubt it.”

When he arrived… ?

“Oh, did I not mention? You were right all along. We’re not getting married; I was lying to you.” He clapped his hands. “Well done. I suppose you’ll die now, since I have no other use for you. Are you happy to hear it? You’ll be with dear, dead Narvi again. Wait, no you won’t, you’ll be in Mandos and then perhaps Aman again, and he’ll be wherever dwarves go, which is nowhere but the bellies of worms as far as anyone knows. Sorry for getting your hopes up there, dearest. But maybe you’ll be with your dearly departed father – there’s something to look forward to. Hah! I’d have rather thought you’d tell me the location of the rings in the hopes of avoiding that alone.”

…

…

… what?

Celebrimbor’s exhausted mind raced to keep up. He picked out Sauron’s casual admission of surrender, but it came with such a slieu of insanity that he didn’t know how to interpret it. Part of him was still trying to figure out what on earth Sauron had meant with what he said of Maeglin, with why Sauron was acting this way – unless Gil-galad was breaking down the doors to his stronghold as he spoke, which was all but impossible even if all three elven ringbearers had been working together. Outright impossible, in truth, not ‘all but’.

“ _It’s a deceit somehow. It always is with him. Stay strong.”_

The voice comforted him. He tried to breathe in and out evenly, preparing for whatever came next. Whatever it was, whatever Sauron said or did, all he had to do was hold on to his resolve and it would be all right. Even if he couldn’t wholly believe that Eru Illuvatar would spare him the everlasting darkness, he still believed wholly in his love for Narvi – that it was true whatever soul bond may or may not have existed based on the incompatibility of their races. Even if Narvi was no longer in this world.

He was still in Celebrimbor’s heart. He trusted in that.

And yet that was not to say, that at the back of his mind, there was not still a part of him trying to understand what Sauron was saying.

“You ridiculous fool,” Sauron told him, abruptly changing direction. “Once I complete the final form of the One Ring it won’t matter where the three you’ve hidden are. Can’t you see that?”

“I can’t see much of anything, now you mention it.”

The sharp points on the knuckles of Sauron’s gauntlet cut across his cheek as he was backhanded.

“That was cheap,” Sauron accused him, darkly. “We’re being serious now, elf. Try to keep up. I know it’s difficult for a mind as small as yours.”

“Who’s… being cheap?” Celebrimbor asked. He wasn’t even sure if he could feel the blow to his face or not.

“… I have an empire to build,” Sauron said, apparently ignoring him. “Why am I wasting my time on this? So many lands and lives to bind to my will… why did it come to this? Why spend so much effort on something as irrelevant as you?”

The metal tips of the gauntlet’s fingers trailed down the cheek it had just struck.

“Why am I still talking to you now?”

Without thinking, Celebrimbor replied, “Who else… do you have to talk to?”

“Good question,” Sauron answered lightly. “The answer may surprise you. But why should I prefer you, Tyelpe? I don’t expect you to answer. Why would a fool like you know the answer to something like that? But then, you were different to him. You always made the people around you happy.”

Him? Celebrimbor tried to remember who Sauron had been talking about. His father? He supposed…

“… well, everyone except old Rugni. He’s dead, you know. Did I tell you that, my love? I put his ugly little head on a pike and had them march it along at the front of the line. You probably wouldn’t have recognised him without his pompous sneer. Or his eyes.”

Celebrimbor flinched.

“Indignant?” wondered Sauron. “Even for that waste of space’s sake? He couldn’t even mason a block properly and he was supposed to lead the architect’s guild. Nepotism at its finest. But you’re upset I put his head on a pike? Perhaps I’ll do the same to you.”

“Do… whatever you like,” Celebrimbor told him. Despite his efforts his breathing was becoming laboured, but he didn’t think it was because he was afraid. Apprehensive, yes, but he didn’t think he was afraid anymore, and that realisation emboldened him further. “It won’t make any difference at all.”

“You’re right,” Sauron said. “No matter what anyone does, it won’t make any difference in the end. We chase our dreams and struggle towards our goals through blood, and fire, and ash – crawl on our bellies and cry and cut and hack through obstacles with any tool to hand but it is all drawing us toward the same conclusion. The same, empty, end to all there ever was.”

He made his words sound so genuine.

_“But you know he’s talking rubbish,”_ Narvi reminded him. _“He’s the one who doesn’t understand the basics. He never will. He’ll never let himself.”_

“Your legacy within this land has not seen itself to its conclusion yet, though,” Sauron told him. “Your death will not end it. Many more will still come to blood-drenched deaths, their hopes burned to dust, their trust in a better future invalidated, because of you. And you will never be able to make up for it. When all is said and done, this world would always have been better off without you.”

There was a grin in the monster’s words.

“… and before you give me the obvious, ‘the same goes for you, demon!’, remember – I don’t care about whether I make things better or worse for the people of this world. You do. So you can’t hold me to your own standard.”

Celebrimbor would have been lying to say the words didn’t cause him pain. They did. That was still the worst thing about all of this, and always would be – the innocent people his foolishness had destroyed, and still would. The truth that any lives saved by the three elven rings would never make up for it.

But despite all that, Celebrimbor couldn’t help but feel he was ready to go.

“I can’t do that,” he agreed. “You only care about yourself, not the people you hurt. But you have also hurt yourself with your megalomania. Your empty lies. So I guess I can hold you to that.”

“So astute. You’ve seen my poor hurting soul inside, have you?”

“Like I said… I haven’t seen much of anything lately. But I can hear your pain, Annatar. And I don’t pity you for it. You have only yourself to blame.”

_“Celebrimbor.”_

A voice…

He was sure he’d heard a voice, just then…

“Pain,” Sauron spat, contemptuously. “Nor should you have pitied me even if you were so inclined. Pain is nothing to me. A mild inconvenience. All that has ever mattered to me is power. Whether I gain it in agony or laughing my head off or both, it will make no difference.”

“Now… who is acting… as ‘Deceiver’?”

The hand inside the cold steel gauntlet grabbed his neck. From one moment to the next he couldn’t breathe, and a part of him wanted to protest – _no, it’s still too soon, just give it a little longer and things might change!_ – but he quietened that part of himself without much trouble.

_“When an elf’s soul is separated from their body it travels to Mandos,”_ the voice – not of Narvi now, but of his father, speaking to him from his memories. _“Like my Atto’s Amme, your great-grandmother, Miriel. He’ll look after them there until they’re ready to come back into the world with a new body.”_

_“How long does that take?”_ he had asked.

Sauron tightened his grip and leaned in closer, mask beside his ear.

_“Celebrimbor.”_

He heard the voice now, clearer than before. He’d heard that voice somewhere else, a long time ago.

_“It’s difficult to say. We don’t think Miriel will be coming back for quite some time.”_

_“Is that why Grandfather is angry with the Valar? Because they won’t let his Amme come back, and are keeping her away from him?”_

_“… it’s a part of it, maybe. But not the biggest part. Elves can’t see or speak with other elves if they don’t have bodies. Only the Valar can recreate those bodies, and lay the souls within them, when they are ready for it. So that is one thing we have to trust them with.”_

“I promise you, Telperinquar,” Sauron told him.

_“Celebrimbor.”_

That was his name. The name of Narvi’s One. He didn’t see himself as Telperinquar anymore. It was not what he had chosen for himself.

“I promise you, that I will wreak such destruction, with your rings…”

“Hold on, elf,” he could imagine Narvi saying. “This is the final leg.”

“Celebrimbor.”

“… that there will be such pain, and weeping throughout the land…”

_“That Lord of Gifts… I don’t trust him. You keep your head around him, elf.”_

_“…_ that everything your people hoped for from here to the shore that used to stretch out into Beleriand…”

“Celebrimbor.”

The hand tightened. There was a heavy weight on his chest.

“… will be annihilated, gone from memory or record. And all those who are left will remember…”

_“Do you know what dwarves mean, when they call someone their ‘One’?”_

“… is how much they love me for it. And how much you loved me for it.”

“Celebrimbor.”

Something strange… he was, lifting up, somehow. The hand on his neck was keeping him pinned down, but like water he was somehow slipping through it.

_“ – means that no matter what happens, our hearts can never abandon each other._ ”

“… I’ll make my own ‘truth’. You’ll be a part of it whether you’re dead or not. The particulars of ‘reality’ will have no meaning. I’ll make a world of dreams.”

“Celebrimbor.”

“… and you may not know it, but I’ll still win. There’s no other way this will end. I won’t let it end any other way. Do you believe me now?”

…

“Celebrimbor.”

He couldn’t feel his body, but he knew the grip was getting tighter and tighter, bringing things to their close.

“Do you believe me now, my friend?!”

_“That’s what a marriage means, to a dwarf. The name of the One lasts longer on the heart than any stroke, any engraving, any cut… Celebrimbor.”_

The last bit of strength within his failing body moved his lips to whisper out one word.

“Narvi…”

The bone snapped.

…

…

And he was gone.

…

…

….

_*~*~*~*_

_“Celebrimbor. There you are.”_

_“You’re safe now, son of Curufin.”_

_“Everything is going to be all right.”_

*~*~*~*~*

Sauron sat with the body for a long time, after all was said and done. As the candles wore down, as the flesh beside him grew cold.

There was never any other way this was going to have ended. He’d always known that, of course. He was no fool like the dead elf on the table.

“Do you know something, Tyelpe?” Sauron remarked quietly, to the corpse. “I feel a lot better now. I really do.”

Then, as the last of the torchlight disappeared, a song came out of the darkness.

_“But hark, for this tale did not finish there;  
The shining moon placed in the sky.  
For when she returned to her Blacklock Clan kin,  
She espied doubt in every eye.”_

Sauron sighed.

_“ ‘Fair maiden,’ said they, to this most worthy dam –  
‘Can you say, if the answer you know:  
Are ye still a Lady of _Blacklock _Clan –  
If your hair be as white as the snow?’ “_

Of course. He should have known _he’d_ turn up now.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ...  
> ...  
> ... Wellp, that's that, folks. In the next chapter... Eol. 
> 
> 'nough said.


	11. Night Fifty-Eight

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello, all - welcome to the final chapter of this fanfic, in which Eol saves all of Middle Earth. (except he doesn't really do that at all).
> 
> ... It's what you might call a 'bittersweet' ending...
> 
> Also, apologies for not responding to comments for the last chapter - I left this one much too late in the day and am already falling asleep at my keyboard. Next time; I promise!

*~*~*~*

The ghost of an elf was rarely seen in the physical world. A faint outline, a shade of an impression, a colourless sketch vaguely resembling the form it had once held and longed to return to before it was nothing but a shapeless patch of light or mist and then nothing visible at all. However, in certain places and certain cases, and by certain beings with the right kind of perception, a ghost of any race might seem to be almost as much the likeness of their former body as the body itself had been… if on a bad day.

Eöl had been a very tall elf in life, only just below the height of his wife because of the deformation in his spine that had afflicted him during his time in Angband and other fortresses of Melkor. The phantom that appeared before him now did not have this curve, nor did it show the scars that the elf had covered up with glamour – but the black runes tattooed onto his face and neck remained.

Sauron remembered the burning that had been in Lomion’s throat from how he’d screamed when such markings had been stained upon his back. He sneered distastefully at the apparition in the doorway.

“What are you doing here, lunatic?”

Smirking, the image folded its arms and made itself to look as though it leaned casually against the wall.

“Aw,” he said. “You know, Mairon, after all this time I really would prefer if you could bring yourself to call me ‘Adar’.”

“Very amusing,” said Sauron. “Is Lomion with you?”

He asked with some apprehension, though he didn’t let it show – he hoped.

“Who?” asked Eöl, his amusement vanished in an instant. Sauron picked up the smirk he’d dropped.

“Aw.” He mocked the elf’s previous utterance. “Being unhoused so long has affected your memory after all, dark elf. You don’t remember Lomion? Your poor son?”

Eöl didn’t make a secret of his hatred of a Noldo name having been given to his son, but he kept his temper in check for the time being.

“ _Maeglin_ , who is the only son I have, is sulking in his walled city after this latest domestic squabble of yours.” He sighed lightly. “In such circumstances someone has to be the adult, and since you have no parents and my former wife has abandoned Maeglin for her bloodstained kin, I’m afraid it looks like that role falls to me.”

Sauron’s eyes narrowed. “I had no idea you were such a comedian.”

“What reason have I not to be so jovial?” Eöl asked, with a brief laugh. “The worst has already come to pass. I warned them, I did everything I could to prevent it, but they wouldn’t listen to me, and now they’ve paid for it – and my son and I are together, where they can never take him away.”

“Well, at least it’s a happy ending for someone,” said Sauron dryly.

Without meaning to, his eyes tracked over to Celebrimbor. Eöl’s followed, and with his expression changing to interest he flickered, and reappeared standing over the body.

Sauron’s fingers twitched. He could use necromancy to banish Eöl – indeed, to bind him to his will, though this was one elf he balked at creating any sort of bond with, even that. After what had happened he was wary of going anywhere near this creature.

At the same time, it irked him to see him stand over Celebrimbor, and with that painted expression on innocent curiosity on his face.

“This is the would-be home-wrecker, then?” he asked casually.

“Was.”

Eöl blinked and looked closer. “Ah. How tragic.” He took a deep breath and added, in a grandiose fashion, “So ends the son of Curufin the Cruel.”

“I believe it was Celegorm they called ‘the Cruel’.”

“Was it? What can we call Curufin then? Curufin the Calamitous? Curufin oft-Cursed? Or maybe just Curufin the Cu—”

“Is that all you came here for, Eöl? You felt you hadn’t reminded the world often enough of your hatred for your wife’s family? I know it’s been a while since we’ve spoken, but I hadn’t forgotten, you know.”

With a small laugh, Eöl stepped away from the corpse again. “No. As I said, I’ve come to smooth things over. What father doesn’t want his child to have a happy, carefree marriage?”

Sauron decided not to dignify that with a direct counter. He only said –

“Get out, Eöl.”

The dark elf’s image paused and grinned.

“No.”

This was absurd. The latest in a long list of absurdities. Sauron should have summoned his will to eject the spirit from his domain as soon as he’d sensed him approaching, but some part of him was curious about its presence, and another part of him was…

No. No, he was just curious. He would not allow Lomion to infect him with his own feelings on top of everything else.

Eöl added, “If nothing else I thought you’d like to know the fate of your companion.”

_Companion? Oh, the elder_. He honestly hadn’t spared it a second thought.

“He’s dead, I take it?”

An amused nod.

_The sword has that much power then_ , he thought. _How, though? There must be another party involved. There must. Another Maia or at least an elf of no small magical ability_. He never did confirm Maglor’s death…

“You’ll forgive my poor sword for that, and for the…” his hand flicked up, miming the motion of the sword splitting him in half. “Of course when I made it, I wanted it to protect my son, so it can be a little overly dramatic on that account. Things understand themselves in that way.”

Sauron said nothing.

He wanted to. He wanted to ask what the hell was going on – how he could be expected to believe that Anguirel had the power to kill things on its own, how someone could have given life to lifeless metal and how that person had happened to be Eöl, a barbaric, mentally unstable former thrall. He wanted to ask if it had anything to do with the stupid prophecy, but even if Eöl did know the answer to the other questions, which was absurd, it was utterly impossible to believe he knew anything about ‘Dagor Dagorath’.

And Sauron had no intention of acknowledging the elf beyond the most superficial, so he said nothing, especially not questions he didn’t want to know the answers to.

However, Eöl wouldn’t let it go.

“Nothing to say, Mairon?”

That name. That name was not him anymore and Eöl of all people did not get to use it!

“Watch your mouth, elf. You may have had no concern for your own safety even in life, but I can assure you you are not beyond my capacity to harm even now – and I will teach you that, if you continue to make an annoyance of yourself. Why are you here, really?”

Eöl raised his eyebrows. “It’s as I said, _Gorthaur_. I may not have all the tools at hand I once did,” he tapped his temple with his index finger for emphasis, “ – but I know what’s going on. I know what you wanted and I know you’re upset you didn’t get it. I know that could affect my little Maeglin. You’ll understand the actions of a concerned father, I’m sure.”

There were few words even in Black Speech Sauron could think to put a descriptor on the hate he saw in Eöl’s smile at that moment. _He actually is worried about what I might do to Lomion because of this. Whether I’ll redouble my efforts to force him across the sea._ He smiled back.

“Oh, certainly, certainly. Well, you have nothing to fear on that account, Eöl. Your deranged obsession with keeping your son chained to you forever in a dark prison cut off from the rest of your people has poisoned him to the extent that he will not leave willingly. Why, you may have just saved all of Middle Earth from falling under my dominion with your hatred. Truly, a hero worthy of song.”

“I’ll let others compose them this time.”

“Indeed. You only seem to know one yourself.”

“Do you know how that song ends?”

Sauron sighed with exasperation. “I know how the tale ends – the dwarf maiden rejected by her people for the change in her hair returning to the moon to help with its upkeep for the rest of her days. I also know you sing a different ending.”

“Do you? I’m surprised. I wouldn’t have thought you cared for obscure dwarven folklore.”

“I know what Lomion – sorry, what _Maeglin_ , knows, and I’ve known for quite some time. That includes his deciding to leave you not because you had no more to teach him, but because you would no longer teach him. So, while I know what Maeglin knows, I don’t know everything about _you_.”

“Or about Anguirel,” finished Eöl for him, and in an almost unnervingly matter-of-fact way. “Or Anglachel.” That addendum was more bitter, presumably because Anglachel was lost to Eöl. “It’s quite simple, my dear son. I was a prisoner of your former master for a long time – as you know, if you indeed know what Maeglin knows – and it just so happened that I proved hardier under the conditions than most.”

Sauron indeed remembered this. Elves who could survive longer than the average year or two beneath the blackened rock of Angband and away from the light of the stars were rare. He had often tried to impress upon Melkor the wisdom in not casually disposing of such elves on a whim, therefore, so they might have the most labour out of them they could – but Melkor… well. He was Melkor.

Yet Sauron remembered the elf Eöl had been. Common-looking among elves and slowly more common-looking among the mass of scarred, skeletal thralls, it had piqued Sauron’s curiosity one day when he had noticed, quite by chance, that the same elf had been carrying water to and from the forge for over ten winters. It had almost been interesting.

“You know that too, I see,” Eöl remarked, lips curling briefly into his hating smile before he schooled his face to seem professional again. “I’m shocked, my lord. Who’d have thought a personage of your importance would notice a plain Avar thrall toiling in the pit of Angband enough to remember him all these years later?”

“You did have that one quality that set you apart from most of the others,” Sauron pointed out. “ _You_ lived.”

“Until the Golodhrim infested the land I did, you mean,” returned Eöl with a bitter snort. “But if not for you I would have died much sooner. I owe you a great debt.”

He was right. Sauron had had him transferred to one of their other facilities in the hopes of getting a few more good years of labour from him rather than have Melkor notice he’d survived so long and smashing his skull open for the audacity of having done so. At the time he had thought the matter finished, but now found it almost unbelievable, he had to admit, to consider how many years of that labour they had actually had before the dwarves had attacked that fortress and freed the thralls there.

“Please don’t go to any trouble,” Sauron told him sweetly.

“Trouble? Well, how about I forgive you all those gifts you were supposed to give me as your father-in-law? Old Curufin told me all about that custom, and it must have been the right thing to do, don’t you think? His people were so much more advanced than mine, after all.”

Sauron rolled his eyes.

“But I digress,” Eöl went on. “I was going to say I tended to the care and cleaning – on and off – of Morgoth’s own workshop. For decades. I scrubbed the blood from the floors, arranged the tools, took discarded flesh to the fires to be burned and kept those within the inner sanctum going. I delivered messages, brought what he asked of me, handled the subjects of his work and sorted through their belongings. I prepared food for prisoners, if he so desired it. I tended their wounds, if he wanted them to suffer longer. I rang the old bell to summon you more than a few times – ha ha! I see by the look on your face we can say I was an irritant to you long before you knew me personally!”

Sauron said nothing. Somehow, though, he was not surprised Eöl would have been ringing the bell that so often made his life a misery. He let Eöl finish his point.

“Morgoth used me while he fashioned weapons of terrible power; tried all he could to bend the Eldar to his will, stripped them layer by layer for their secrets and the knowledge of their construction and used the essence of his power to try and re-create a race of slaves in his own image: better than the orcs he’d achieved already. And I, my lord, as he worked method after method, art after art to try and create his ultimate weapons – I was _watching._ ”

“Ridiculous,” said Sauron, without even considering the claim.

“I’m sure it is,” said Eöl, waving one hand, “yet here we are. Heard any good prophecies, lately?”

Sauron did not want to waste his time trying to puzzle out how Eöl might have heard of the prophecy that first jumped into his mind when it had been brought across the sea long after his death. He only said bluntly –

“No.”

That prophecy didn’t even refer to Anguirel, but to its brother-sword.

_That sound_ , he thought, when it was the last thing he wanted to do right now, with Tyelpe dead beside him – _that sound that had rung out through the world of that vision. The sound of a sword hitting its equal and opposite._

Was Melkor supposed to wield Anguirel at the end?

And yet…

The prophecy would have been woven in the Hall of Vaire. Interpreted by her and by her consort who would have known the face of Turin and the shape of his sword by the memories of the dead within his halls who had seen him in life. Even if the swords were identical, he would have easily assumed that since Turin wielded it, it was Anglachel in the vision.

…

But what if it wasn’t?

_No,_ at the same time he yelled at himself. _It isn’t even going to come to pass!_

_It isn’t._

_He isn’t even coming back._

Sauron looked again towards Celebrimbor, who would also not now come back. He didn’t care. Why would something like him care about something like that. His concern was neither the past nor the distant future. He had more important matters to concern himself with.

“No,” he said again. “And you’re beginning to try my patience, _Adar._ ”

“I’ve been told I have that effect on people,” agreed Eöl. “It could be that I’m not really the right person to comfort you in your hour of need.”

“Whatever could have given you that idea?” Sauron asked sarcastically. He himself heard the tell-tale pitch of an anger about to boil over in his voice. But then he thought twice over Eöl’s words, and found himself even more annoyed than before. “ – and what hour of need are you talking about? The whereabouts of the three rings is important enough, but not essential. I’ll most likely get my hands on them without him. This is a minor setback at worst, I can assure you.”

None of it meant a thing.

Eöl, unsurprisingly, laughed at that assertion. “Oh, Gorthaur, what else am I to think when this has upset you so? What has happened to the cool and collected schemer these past few weeks, plotting silently in the shadows, cutting with a blade so fine the cutter has escaped before his victim even knows he’s been cut?”

“Stop it,” Sauron muttered.

“Where is that master of subtlety and deception – who could glean the truth from a prisoner without the need for a confession, or persuade to do his bidding with words alone?”

“Shut up.”

“ – and when words weren’t enough why did we not hear the screams for mercy echoing from your head into the halls my Maeglin crafted? You served Curufin’s son well enough in terms of torture, I suppose, but this is nowhere near your best effort. Come now, I was in Angband – I should know.”

“Eöl…”

“Why did you go so easy on him, my lord? And why try so hard to ingratiate yourself to Maeglin? You know my son. You know the right way to go about this – “

“Eöl, I’m warning you – “

“ – the smart way, would have been to remind him of who you really are. Properly remind him, not just fly into a rage and babble about how evil you are. You know how Maeglin learned to deal with a loved one yelling dark things at him? It wasn’t by confronting him.”

“You mean yourself, dark elf?”

“I wonder – is having an elf in your head making you soft on your most illustrious victims? Or maybe having one in your bed has made you soft on my poor, dear son.”

And there was the worst possibility right there. Worse than a tactical disadvantage. Worse than a dearth of information. Worse than a loss of temper or the loss of a…

Of a…

Of a potential spouse. The worst of it had been plainly visible in that blasted dream – the other end of the chain that was collared to Lomion’s neck was shackled to his own wrist. A bond between souls went both ways, however heavily the balance of power may have favoured one party – it was what he’d been trying to make Celebrimbor understand when he’d…

Celebrimbor lay there, dead and gone. He hadn’t even _tried_ to understand. Sauron hadn’t been lying to him. He hadn’t lied to him once.

The bond went both ways. Was that why he hadn’t yet scourged Eöl’s soul until it _bled_?

“I would like for you to leave now, thrall,” Sauron said calmly. “I have things to do, you see. Can’t leave a corpse lying around the place, however princely.”

“A state funeral?” asked Eöl.

“You could call it that.” He considered for a moment. “I think I’ll have my orcs strip the skin off piece by piece, the whole body below the neck but not the face – I want him to be recognised by his remaining family when I pin him to one of my banners.”

The words were coming by themselves. Sauron didn’t feel a thing.

“Well, naturally – it wouldn’t be fair on the bannerman to have to hold a body up if you didn’t lighten the load somehow.”

“Go away, Eöl. I’ve no intention of exacting retribution on Lo – on Maeglin – for this catastrophe. I would prefer to stay as far away from him as I’ve no doubt you would like, for as long as possible. And don’t tell me you don’t believe me. Of anyone I’d expect you to know the truth when you hear it.”

Eöl laughed. “Flattery, son-in-law!? That’s more like it! But try it on those who are more susceptible, why don’t you – the humans who swan about upon that island, for instance? I fear the remaining Golodhrim might have just enough wits to see through another attempt such as this. As I understand it, most of them already did.”

Sauron was getting really tired of Eöl surprising him – now with his knowledge of the existence of Numenor and lead-up to the fall of Eregion when even Lomion, directly connected to Sauron as he was, was hazy about the outside world in general. But of course Eöl was still in contact with the _kelvar_ , so it wasn’t a great mystery.

Just annoying. Relentlessly annoying, that was Eöl.

“Thank you so much for that suggestion,” he sneered, “but I’m afraid my new project will be taking up most of my time – besides which, I’m not over-eager to leap back into battle when Eregion has already cost me significantly in terms of resources.”

“But who said anything about battle?” asked Eöl, smirking.

Just then Sauron caught something like… anticipation, in the spirit’s eyes, his emotion showing through this image even as it might have done in life. A glint that betrayed a larger fire.

_What on earth does he care who I attack next? His tribe is gone, his people never meant so much to him, enough of Lomion’s memories of his friction with the government in Doriath are mine. Would he want to steer me away from their remnants in the north by switching my attention to Numenor?_

_And yet, his gleam is of excitement, not worry. Could it be…?_

“Eöl…” he began slowly. “Do you have some sort of grudge against a kingdom that came into being long after your death?”

Even though Sauron’s voice was mocking in its pretended sympathy, Eöl’s smile only widened.

“They are the legacy of Turgon and his murdering son-in-law, Gorthaur. You tell me.”

Murdering – _honestly_. How utterly absurd.

“Ah, yes. How dare Tuor kill Maeglin – that’s your job.”

“Exactly!” Eöl shot back, with enough vehemence that Sauron was momentarily amazed. “See, Gorthaur? You understand. I know technically he survived the fall, and he might have gotten away if you hadn’t ordered him to stay still and burn to death – even with the broken arm and leg – but you’re his husband. And what kind of hypocrite would I be if I said it was wrong for a husband to kill their spouse, hmm? The human really is the only one to blame for it, don’t you agree?”

“You were trying to kill him, not her,” Sauron pointed out. “You knew what was going to happen.”

“Their illustrious majesties visited me in Nan Elmoth once,” Eöl told him, and Sauron knew who he meant by that, for he had seen that wretched fool Luthien in Lomion’s memories too, and her mother – _Melian, Melian, why would you bind yourself to one of them willingly, it makes no sense_ – with them.

While Luthien had tried, _tried_ to coax the young, nameless elfling into play her mother had had a solemn word with Eöl on the other side of the clearing. What had she said?

“What did her majesty say to you, that day?” asked Sauron.

“She said,” replied Eöl, pointing off in Sauron’s direction, “ ‘ _That child has a dark fate’_.” He lowered his hand again. “And she was right. I knew she would be. I tried everything to avoid it.” He stopped and sighed. “… but no one would listen to me. Least of all the child himself”

A heavy silence clouded the dark room. There was a strange instant where Sauron wondered if Eöl’s presence had been his imagination all along, but then the elf’s image shrugged and his spirit finally walked away from Celebrimbor’s body.

“Well,” he said, “it’s done now, and they’ll have to live with their mistake, for none of them will ever see my son again.” He turned dark eyes on Sauron. “Just in case you get any ideas about trying to persuade him to Mandos’ halls again, son-in-law. I can assure you I will never let him go.”

Sauron had to laugh at that one.

“You fool. ‘Let him’? Lomion is the one with all the power in your relationship, the power he has absorbed from me. He can leave any time he wants and when he does there will be nothing you can do to stop him.”

But Eöl only laughed back.

“Oh, Gorthaur. The strongest thing this side of the sea, and you still do not understand what true power is.”

“What is that supposed to mean – “

He stopped.

There was a vibration in the room and this time Eöl really was gone.

_Cretin. Easy enough to get the last word in when you run away as soon as you’ve spoken it._

Now Sauron was alone in the room, with nothing but a corpse for company – and, humming in the back of his mind like a mosquito somewhere in the room that he couldn’t see, there was still Lomion, all those miles away. But Celebrimbor himself was gone, and for good this time.

_And it is_ , he thought, _for_ good. Apart from his being unable to discover the location of the three rings from him, there really were no downsides. Such information hadn’t been anywhere near worth the amount of trouble he’d gone to nor what he thought it might be worth the risk to give up. Marriage? To Celebrimbor? Lunacy. It was probably Lomion’s influence that he ever considered it in the first place – or letting Lomion go tell tales to the Valar that might have brought unwanted scrutiny to him on their part.

He didn’t need those rings. He could probably get them anyway if he did – he didn’t need Celebrimbor. Celebrimbor was worthless to him – just an in for a plan already carried out for better or worse, and a new weapon…

_One ring to rule them all._

He didn’t need the three. He didn’t need Celebrimbor. He had everything under control.

_“Ha-ha, of course you would, Annatar, you could sail through a storm as though the sun were still shining through it, I’m sure._

_Still, I can’t say I don’t worry about you sometimes. Being the only one of your kind out here and having to put up with the likes of us._

_Even as powerful and perfect as you are, I wonder that it doesn’t get hard for you to live up to being the ‘Lord of Gifts’ now and then._

_But what do I know? I’m only an elf, and widely agreed to be a foolish one at that. You show me how it’s done, my lord, and I at least, will keep you company a while._

_If that’s something you want, of course.”_

He didn’t…

Killing him like this had been for the best. Not out of weakness, not out of inability to control his rage or certainly his sympathy, but ultimately because he’d wasted too much time already on this ill-advised venture, allowing his pride – he was proud, that he could accept – to steer him down dangerous paths because he couldn’t admit to losing even this meaningless contest of wills.

Yes, this was all his pride getting out of hand. He’d have to curtail it for his next project. After the Ring was complete, of course.

Tearing his eyes away from Celebrimbor’s body he glanced over at the door as though Eöl had used it to enter or leave – rather than the more likely method of using Lomion’s connection to Sauron to project himself. A strenuous task for a little elf ghost, so perhaps it wasn’t even choice he’d disappeared like that. He was right about Numenor, though. Suggest it as a target for his own reasons though he may, the fact remained it was an excellent target.

Something to consider while he was in the forge, at least.

His eyes were drawn back inexorably to Celebrimbor; pale and wasted in his bonds. _All for the best_. Time to call in someone to clean up the mess and move on to the next item on his agenda.

Yet he stood there, and stared down at the lifeless flesh.

And he stood there longer thereafter.

Why shouldn’t he? Being attached to his raiment while it was destroyed after going all that way, trying to use his power over Lomion… his energy was not limitless. Why shouldn’t he just stand there for a while and stare.

He’d killed the last scion of Feanor in Middle Earth. Why not bask in the accomplishment, pitiful as it was under the circumstances? The elf who’d taken such liberties with him, him of all people, as though he were anything near Sauron’s level in any respect – had finally had his comeuppance. It was as much as he deserved.

_That will show you,_ he thought. _For all your falling back on abstracts like ‘estel’ I somehow doubt you’ve been reunited with your beloved dwarf after all –_

The dwarf.

The _dwarf_.

One small flicker of him in his thoughts and the whining of that mosquito became suddenly deafening.

It didn’t mean anything.

It didn’t mean anything at all.

_… But how dare he let the name of that person be the last one he ever spoke!_

It was Lomion’s fault. All of it was Lomion’s fault. He had been telling him the truth – telling both of them the truth, the whole time…

His eyes were dragged once more to Celebrimbor’s.

…

…

…

…

…

…

… Why couldn’t they have just believed him!?

*~*~*

Eöl returned to the woods with a proverbial click of the tongue, followed with a shrug. It would have been ideal to engage just a little more with the torturer – he had wanted to address the issue of the ring, and how it would almost inevitably prove to be his downfall. Idiocy to warn him, some might have said, but they underestimated Gorthaur’s bull-headedness, and the relish with which Eöl would one day say, ‘I told you so’.

There was little else to relish, in this place.

Feeling a disturbance in the air he pulled himself back to the hollow tree, where the remains of Gorthaur’s servant, his flesh-puppet, and several of the magpies who had been too aversely-affected by the conflict lay. There also was Anguirel, blacker than it had ever looked before, silently seething. Eöl smiled.

“Well done, my sword,” he told it gently. “I doubt the right hand of Morgoth will be trying that again any time soon.”

But Anguirel only looked blacker, and Eöl felt it rage harder. It did not speak, but he heard what it was saying.

_“If only I had had the power to do that when it mattered!”_

“It doesn’t matter any less now,” he told it. “I know Maeglin’s suffering is hard to accept, but this all turned out as well as could be expected.”

More rage. The sword was more sympathetic to Eöl’s son these days – annoying, but endurable.

“How is he?” he asked.

There was a hesitation from the sword. A half-moment, and then a change in the demeanour of the tree, like a curtain being pulled back just enough to peek through. Behind the veil he could hear the child crying. He sighed.

“Oh dear. I suppose I’d better go to him, don’t you?”

Anguirel hesitated again. That was all right. It was what children did when adults interrogated them about their friends’ misdeeds, but even then most children knew to admit the truth when danger or hurt were present. Anguirel was the same.

Eöl felt the entrance peel back and smiled as he passed through it, into the hidden city. A world cracked and broken at the seams, towers crumbled into composite blocks like toys for infants and trees uprooted and thrown around at impossible angles. The sky was black as the sword, great crystals hung down from it as from the ceiling of a cave, and hot water ran through the twisted labyrinth of streets.

Towards the centre, where the greater towers of the city should have been, the paths lead up just as they had before, but from where he was he saw them seem to spiral, run into each other and circle back on themselves, go nowhere – a twisted, monstrous helter-skelter of a city, from which buildings hung upside-down or on their sides in a random pile of paths.

Honestly, he thought it something of an improvement.

Slogging through the running hot water – wincing, knowing where Gorthaur had committed his defilement – Eöl proceeded to the centre of the mess, where the crying was coming from. He was not in the least surprised to see that wall, along that cliff-face, slanted vertically as it was – coming out of the main palace hall. Tall trees growing at every angle. He was not in the least afraid to wander towards the edge.

Maeglin, looking just as he had at twelve, sat up from the ball he’d curled himself into when he sensed him approaching. Eöl was not surprised at all. He had known all along this would happen. That pair of pitch-black eyes with glittering tears stared into his, their mirror.

He stood up and ran to Eöl with renewed cries, the lick of flames flickering over his shoulders and along his sides like distortions in the mist – never catching to engulf him, but always there.

“Ada!”

Neither of them had bodies any longer. But elves were meant to have bodies, so when creating a world of the mind it made sense to create a body to appear in, even if it was only a phantom of a form. Maeglin’s phantom ran into his own with a soft thump, small arms wrapping around his middle with too much strength for it to have been a true physical embrace.

This… was hard to accept. The alternative was still much worse. Here, at least, they were free.

“Ada!” the boy sobbed. “He hurt me! He hurt me and everything I made is ruined! And I made him what he asked for, I made him the best ring, the very best – but he still attacked me and he tried to make me leave!”

Eöl pet the boy’s head but couldn’t help rolling his eyes. “Oh, my foolish, frail child. What have I told you a hundred thousand times before? No one ever makes the very best that can be made.”

_Not even Illuvatar._

“But I tried!” cried Maeglin. “I tried my very hardest, I promise! I always tried my best and made nice things for everybody but all of them hated me anyway!” he paused for a particularly loud sob. “…and – and nobody ever wanted to be my friend!”

He trailed off weeping. Eöl couldn’t help but shake his head in exasperation. He took a firmer hold of Maeglin’s shoulders and pushed him away, taking a hold of his head and tilting it up to look at him, the tears streaming out like molten steel, red-hot, burning his face.

“This is your own fault,” Eöl told him solemnly, “for ever thinking it was going to be any different.”

Maeglin shook his head in a pathetic attempt at denying it.

“Yes,” Eöl returned. “You know I’m right. What did I tell you, right from the start? I am the only one who will ever love you. Ever and always, only me.”

“No,” whined Maeglin.

“Yes,” Eöl insisted. “Why should you ever want it any other way? When your mother held pretence to loving you she died for it, and if Dorchar and Drorchar had not demanded I produce you before them out of fear for your safety, I would not have returned to Nan Elmoth in time to discover you and your mother gone. Foolish child. When have I ever steered you wrong?”

“You’re so horrible!” Maeglin groaned. “You hurt me and tried to kill me and killed Nana!”

“Oh, hush. Everything I did I did to protect you and you know it. And your mother’s death was her own silly fault, I will not be blamed for it.”

“You _are_ horrible, Tithellon’s Ada,” insisted a small, childish voice from behind him. “You killed _me_.”

Slowly, Eöl looked down at the thing that had wandered onto the scene; its blank black eyes, the one dangling from a thread, its stitched-up scars, its burned fur. Telchar had once told him it was easy for a master of a craft to admire a ruined treasure, if they had the insight to see what the object should have been – but there was nothing admirable in this object. It stung, even now, to see how attached his son was to it – for it to show up here of all places, speaking as though it had a will of its own, as if something _she_ made on a whim could have begun to emulate what all his learning had led up to over centuries.

He did not regret burning the toy, once the time for Maeglin to discard such childish things had been and gone and it had lingered still. That it should have remained in his thoughts all this time… the influence of the Golodhrim, to be sure.

Well, it couldn’t be helped. Gorthaur was right in that it was Maeglin who controlled this world, not he, so the toy would stay for now. He ignored it.

“He hates me,” Maeglin cried. “Everybody hates me. It’s not fair! I was trying so hard…” and he trailed off into tears again.

“There, there,” Eöl murmured. “Gorthaur is the enemy of our people, so it can’t be helped. As for everyone else, it hardly matters what they think. They’re not worth our time, my son. And they’ll never like you no matter what you do. You know it’s the truth, or you wouldn’t still be here, would you?”

“But I want… I want… I…”

“Hush. You don’t know what you want, that’s plain to see. You’re still a child, after all. That’s why it’s important you stay here, with your father. I’ll never leave you.”

“And me!” shouted the toy. “I’ll never leave Tithellon!”

Eöl managed to restrain himself from destroying the thing for the umpteenth time. That never went over well and now was not the time to push too hard.

“Come on now,” he said, glancing up at the sky of this patchwork world. “This place is a mess. We can’t leave it looking like this or people will think we’re no good at what we do – and more than that it’s a point of principle as craftsmen. Dry your eyes now, Maeglin, there’s no point in crying. You’re only wasting time.”

Maeglin looked up at him, the metal cooling silver-grey on his cheeks, eyes shining – glowing, even, still.

“I’m _tired_ ,” he complained.

That was, Eöl supposed, understandable.

“A short rest then. I’ll carry you back to the house. Come on.”

The child didn’t fight as he was lifted up. Eöl arranged him into his arms like a baby and turned away from the cliff, scouring the mishmash of trees and buildings hanging in the sky. The old house was among them somewhere – of that he was certain, and somehow Maeglin would lead him back there. Back to the threads of low light trailing along the gaps in the shuttered windows. Back to his childhood bed within the nest of roots, within a dream, within a sword, within a nest of roots.

Back where he belonged.

“Mairon won’t come back now,” he muttered into Eöl’s chest, somewhere between a statement and a question.

“I doubt it, thankfully,” said Eöl. “But as long as the bond between you is there, it’s always going to be a possibility. It wouldn’t have been like this if you had listened to me.”

“But I did listen to you,” Maeglin protested. “You said not to leave for Mandos, so I didn’t! Now Mairon doesn’t like me anymore.”

“Don’t be stupid, he never liked you. He may be your husband, but he is also the Enemy, and so we must thwart him at every turn.”

“But I _want_ him to like me,” said Maeglin, with a small sob. “I made the best design I could for him.”

“Yes,” sneered Eöl, “and he is promptly finding every way he can to screw it up. Forget him, Maeglin, he has no desire to come here anymore.”

“He will.”

Just as Maeglin was poised to start crying again the little voice from the thing following behind him pierced the air as clearly as a wolf’s howl on a still night. Eöl stopped and turned around, this time feeling only a marginal annoyance with the toy as his curiosity told him there was something with weight in the words.

To be sure, he asked it –

“What was that, rag-doll?”

“He _will_ come back,” it said, with eerie confidence. “Maybe a long, long time from now, but one day Mairon will come back here. And he’ll stay here, with all of us. _Forever_.”

There was a long silence. At length, Eöl tilted his head.

“Perhaps you’re right,” he allowed.

Emboldened by that, the thing stumbled out in front of him, it’s dangling eye bouncing around in an ungainly fashion as its nose twitched.

“This way, Tithellon’s Ada,” it told him. “The old house is over here.”

Eöl did not acknowledge it again, but he followed, and the orange clouds among the dark grey that shook as though with silent thunder began to disappear, casting the midnight blue veil of their old home over the dreamscape.

Shifting his now quiet son in his arms, he began to hum the old tune he’d learned long, long ago.

He was sure, when he sang it, that the ending he remembered was the right one.

_“These foolhardy dwarves stared with heartless eyes;  
and parted wherever she went.  
‘O, Maker,’ cried she with great sorrow and woe;  
‘For what lonely fate was I meant!?’_

_So taken was she by despair in her heart;  
A deadly plan formed in her mind.  
‘If black must my hair be to honour my kin -   
A way to blacken it I’ll find.’_

_But lightened her hair was by mystical means;  
No ink, paint or dye would it take.  
The one black’ning left to this sorrowing maid,  
Was the blackness that fire could make._

_A burning black coal did she hold to her hair;  
A last desperate effort, and brash.  
For this pitiless flame took hold of her hair,  
And burned the poor lady to ash.”_

The song ended on a morbid sort of laughter from the singer.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you everyone reading, kudos-ing and commenting!
> 
> Stay tuned for the epilogue, coming... soon-ish!


	12. Day One

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, to my mind, 'epilogue' means 'longest chapter of the fic'. I hope that's okay with you guys!
> 
> In this Chapter, the much happier ending than the previous chapter gave us. Enjoy!

*~*~*

There was a gentle bird song in the trees above him.

There were _trees_ above him.

Celebrimbor blinked his eyes slowly against the radiant sunlight falling down from between the leaves. He was lying on his back on the forest floor, it was warm, bright, there were trees and birds were singing within them.

He breathed in.

His body responded. _His_ body. Not a dream or an illusion but a real body, such as he’d had before – all new but all working perfectly, his heart beating, his blood flowing, his eyes adjusting to the light as he blinked again. The weight of it holding him in place was so familiar, and the presence of the trees, the air, the soil – the physical world all around him…

_Celebrimbor. It is time._

Time. Time for… ?

He sat up, and his adjusting vision swam, pitching him over onto his elbow. Locks of loose dark hair fell in front of his face and he closed his eyes again. Though it seemed absurd for it to have happened so suddenly he knew what had happened and where he was – he was in Aman, the land of his birth, returned from the Halls by the will of Namo after…

He was unsure how long he had spent there. It was an existence outside of the conception of time he’d known before – beautiful and peaceful, but at the same time desolate. An existence without life, the Maiar had explained to him, when elves were created to live.

_It is time._

So Namo had explained to him. And so he had been returned.

Celebrimbor let himself lie back against the leaves again. He breathed in and out. In and out.

_“I see not even your Doomsman could stand to keep you around forever,”_ he imagined Narvi saying – and he laughed, to himself, lying in the forest, at that thought.

Narvi.

Before any more thought towards his long-lost love could come there was a harsh disruption in the air, a dog barking not far away and Celebrimbor’s head moved instinctively in that direction.

_Right,_ he told himself. _Here you are. Again. Let’s see where he’s put you…_

He knew the forest in his heart, that was immediately obvious, but the exact location was not coming to him all at once. As he eased himself onto his elbows again and sat up – slower than before – he tried to collect his thoughts around his situation. He had been returned, that he knew without a doubt as well, as Namo had explained. Coming back to a body made his memories of the Halls abruptly hazy though, and so while he remembered a conversation he did not remember how it went exactly. However, he was also sure this was not unusual, like this was something he had already been reassured about.

The dog barked again, closer now.

_No sense in waiting around for an answer to fall out of the sky. If there’s one thing you can thank your paternal line for outside of craftsmanship, it’s initiative._

A wide grin split this face for the first time, almost without warning.

Craftsmanship. He could _make_ things again!

For a brief moment he could remember his despair of ever doing so again deep in the dungeons of Barad-Dur, but this memory brought no lingering grief with it, only relief that that despair had been unwarranted. Grief had been one of the wounds soothed by Mandos – never banished from existence entirely, for that would be to disrespect the memories he’d grieved, but now taking its proper place in his heart, a piece of a puzzle that fit perfectly, and not a thorn jammed in where it did not belong.

He heard horses, and the voices of elves alongside the dog now – a hunting party! – and this drove the brief remembrance from his mind. Desiring now to find whoever it was who was near he focused on standing up, though at first he found it difficult to remember how to do so, as before it had never really been something one had to think about. He tried to push himself up off the ground in the hopes that once he was up he’d get back to it on instinct, but though the muscles were ready to go his brain apparently wasn’t and he stumbled forward onto his knees, spreading patches of dirt on the white robe he only then realised he was dressed in.

_Fine work_ , he thought, examining the threads. _Very thoughtful of Lord Namo towards any ladies that might have been nearby…_

Celebrimbor gave his legs a glance. He could tell they were in perfect working order and would have expected nothing less, but couldn’t help but let out a small sigh.

“A most inspiring start to your first day back,” Narvi might have said.

As if knowing what was in his mind, one of the blackbirds he heard singing swooped down to a nearby root to tweet at him. Celebrimbor found himself smiling.

“You’re my welcoming party, then, my little friend?” he asked.

The bird answered. Celebrimbor chuckled a little.

“Not every day Mandos releases a returning elf right onto your doorstep, I hope?”

With another brief burst of song the bird flew back into the leaves, and in the same moment Celebrimbor caught a flash of motion in the nearby trees out of the corner of his eye – the dog, the hound who he had been hearing before, running right towards him through the thicket. He was momentarily taken aback when it came into view, not only the first larger beast he’d seen with these eyes, but one of the old scenthounds from his distant childhood, a light, silvery grey with long, floppy ears and round black eyes.

He took in a deep breath. The hound came right towards him and almost in an instant was upon him, sniffing him all over. Celebrimbor paused, lips still trying to bend into a smile, wondering if he should pet the hound as it barked excitedly back in the direction it had come from.

“Hello there,” Celebrimbor greeted it, chuckling. “What have you stumbled upon, I wonder?”

The dog panted and barked again. Through the trees Celebrimbor could see the shape of riders – two of them – and he couldn’t help but feel apprehensive even though he knew Namo would not have sent him back into danger. It had been a long time, he imagined, since he had spoken to another elf. Things had been different in the Halls.

“Snowball!” a voice, male, called from the direction of the horses. “Snowball, what are you doing!?”

Celebrimbor’s heart leapt to hear an elf’s voice so clearly. In the back of his mind he remembered a time he’d feared he’d never hear another ever again. But here, a stone’s throw away almost, here was one now. One who’d called the dog ‘Snowball’, no less, so not sounding particularly intimidating at that. Still, he took deep breaths. There was no real reason to be afraid, only he didn’t know quite what to expect.

_Maybe I should call out to them_ , he thought, opening his mouth. He then paused.

… _if I can remember how to do that._ Honestly. He’d just spoken to the dog, how hard could it be to –

“Snowball! Snowball, what have you found there?” asked the same voice exasperatedly.

Snowball barked once more and then ran off towards the riders. As they drew closer, Celebrimbor recognised the gaits of thoroughbred Noldo mounts; a chestnut and a dark brown, and the clothing which, though simple, bore the eight-pointed star emblem of the House of Feanaro. He did not recognise the elves themselves yet, but their being bound to a member of his family was comforting.

This was not the first time he had realised how much he desperately wanted to see his father, and the whole lot of them again. But it was the first time he realised it since coming back to life.

_Home,_ he thought. _I will be going home soon_.

Shakily, he made another attempt to stand up.

“Silly boy, you went completely off the trail there – “

“Sirondo, look!” what sounded like the same voice again cut the first one off.

Well, they’d seen him now. They then promptly saw him fall over again, so at least he’d made a good first impression. He imagined Narvi rolling his eyes at him.

The rider on the chestnut mount jumped off and ran towards him, calling “I think he’s injured!” over his shoulder to the second, who grabbed the reins of his companion’s horse and followed.

A few brief moments of anticipation later, and they were at his side.

“Careful!” Strong arms hoisted him up. “Are you hurt?”

Celebrimbor didn’t know how to answer. He looked into the eyes of his helper and his breath caught – grey, grey like his own, and he knew the eyes of the House of Finwe well. He didn’t recognise this elf, but he sensed youth from them and their other features were familiar.

As he stared, the young elf looked up and down to check for injuries and his gaze narrowed in on the robe he was wearing, his jaws opening slightly in astonishment.

“You are a Returner,” he gasped. “Sirondo, quick! Find Father – tell him an elf has been returned into the forest!”

“Returned?” repeated the second rider. “Here? Are you sure?”

Again, there was so little difference in the voices that Celebrimbor looked from the first to the second elf and back and – yes. Identical twins.

“The robe is just like our uncle’s was,” said the first elf. “Get Father, quick!”

The other twin hesitated for a moment, then departed, leaving the second mount behind as he urged his own to gallop. The dog, Snowball, came back to the first twin’s side.

“There, there,” said the remaining twin. “You’re safe now, my friend. Not more than a two-hour ride from Formenos.”

Celebrimbor was finding having so many things to sense and react to at once when he was so out of practice overwhelming. Two hours away from Formenos? Even closer than he’d thought. This elf… this was the first elf he’d seen since Eregion fell. A youngster whose eyes now darted from left to right realising he had no idea what to say next – Celebrimbor knew that look. After a few false starts the young elf craned his neck back the way his brother had gone and hemmed and hawed, finally smiling at whatever almost certainly stupid-looking face Celebrimbor was making in turn.

“Atto – that is, my father – he was not far away, he’ll be here soon. He is also a Returner; he’ll know how to help you.”

Also? A family member who had returned? Every single candidate was…

“Don’t worry. Everything is going to be all right, definitely!”

Celebrimbor had the feeling the elf was now saying this as much for himself as for Celebrimbor. His own lips twitched. The elf had forgotten to actually tell him his name. He had silver blond hair and only one member of the family of Feanor had likewise.

Almost as soon as they’d faded into the distance, Celebrimbor heard the horses’ hooves again. Two horses. The dog barked with excitement. His mind was all but blank.

“Ah, Atto was closer than I’d thought, hold on.” He raised himself up a little, waving his arm. “Atto! Atto, over here!”

Apprehensively, painfully and joyously, like he already knew – Celebrimbor managed to push himself into looking up. The other twin had returned with a second rider on dapple-grey mount, a huge wolfhound at his side, silver blond hair like his sons’. But his face, softening from frown into a desperate hopefulness, was all too familiar.

“Uncle…” Celebrimbor said, without thinking of how to speak.

Celegorm breathed out in shock. “Tyelpe?”

He moved so fast Celebrimbor could barely catch the motion before the other was on him, arms locked around him, hand pressing his head into the other’s shoulder. He heard the air sucked in with suddenly tremendous effort, exhaled into sobs.

Celebrimbor smiled against the cloth of his uncle’s tunic. It was warm.

Celegorm – Tyelkormo, rather, he had no doubt his uncle did not use the Sindar name here – carried him back like an invalid, seating him in front of himself on his own horse. At first the older elf could barely speak except to mutter comforting-sounding nonsense in his ear – once he’d imparted that their hunt would be cut short.

His sons – sons! Someone was actually mad enough to marry Tyelko! – followed silently; Celebrimbor caught them giving each other amazed looks from time to time but neither seemed to be able to bring himself to speak. Imagining the situation from their point of view was difficult; children of one of the infamous sons of Feanor, post-return from the dead, now confronted with a cousin they’d never met who…

… well, he assumed they knew who he was. What he’d done? Tyelkormo’s reaction spoke of one who had known his nephew had died. He’d learn later, he supposed, how much they knew exactly.

With that thought the stir of something long-soothed twinged in his stomach. He may no longer quake at the memory of that dark cell in Barad-Dur, but the thought of what his family did or did not know about that time was suddenly there again. He felt from his uncle’s reaction though – they knew more than enough.

But to think, his uncle – and of all his uncles Tyelkormo – would be there to greet him on his way out of the Halls. That he had already left that domain, long enough ago to now have two sons grown to adulthood! And in his heart, he knew that that meant…

“Uncle.”

The word came out after a few abortive tries. He could tell having to get used to having a body again was going to be frustrating. Tyelkormo seized up and almost stopped the horse.

“Tyelpe…?”

“Is… my father…?”

Tyelkormo’s face softened in understanding. “He’ll be waiting at the house. Sirnallamo, ride on ahead and tell everyone what’s happened, quickly!”

‘Sirnallamo’, grinning, nodded to his father and drove his steed to a gallop, striding out ahead of them and past the border of the trees, then all too swiftly out of sight. His brother lingered behind them with curious looks, like he was desperate to say something yet constantly thinking better of it.

Two cousins. Tyelkormo and his father had already come back before him. It should have caused more mixed feelings than it was but all he could feel was joy. And he wondered –

“Is everyone… ?”

Tyelkormo glanced at him and took a deep breath, then nodded. “Everyone, Tyelpe. Makalaure was the last, when the boys were children, and took the longest.” A flash of old pain flickered in Tyelkormo’s eyes, but it was brief. Celebrimbor was relieved to hear about Makalaure, even as it was confirmed for him for the first time that he had, in fact, died at some point. He had looked for him – helped Elrond look for him, rather, still too filled with shame at the time to search of his own accord – but to no avail.

But he was all right. They were all, all alright. Even –

“Grandfather?”

Hesitantly, Tyelkormo nodded again. “Atto returned not long before Makalaure. He was stubborn, which I’m sure is hardly news to you, but he could not be parted from his children forever.”

Celebrimbor frowned. Noticing this, Tyelkormo winced like he knew he’d made a mistake and shook his head.

“I’m sorry. There is much to tell you and I’m getting ahead of myself.”

“Did Feanor…?”

“Refuse the call of Mandos? Oh, yes. Your father and I also, for a time.”

Honestly, remembering his own passing, Celebrimbor wasn’t sure how any elf could do such a thing. He knew it was possible of course, but didn’t understand how.

“We stayed in Beleriand until we knew Amburussa had passed. They did not stay, and neither had Moryo, and at about that point we realised our remaining was doing no good. Father was still in Beleriand at that point, but we never found him – being unhoused and refusing Mandos is…”

He took another deep breath, looking behind him at his son.

“… what am I saying? Now isn’t the time. You’ll hear all about it eventually, I cannot believe you’re back!” He finished with a desperate laugh.

“You… knew I was…?”

“We hear news from across the sea from time to time. Elves Return, or cross the sea while still alive. You have been in the Halls for a little over two hundred winters.”

Time had passed so strangely in that place Celebrimbor didn’t even know if it surprised him or not.

“… your father and I were about ready to swim across the sea to take revenge on your behalf when we heard, but we were told in no uncertain terms that we would not be allowed to cross and if we tried then we would not be here when you came back. It has been hard for Curvo, more than I ever thought I’d understand before…”

He looked back at his own son again, whose eyes sparkled with amusement. Celebrimbor couldn’t think of what to say.

“You will see him, won’t you, Tyelpe?” Tyelkormo asked him, hesitantly. “He loves you so much.”

“I know,” Celebrimbor found himself replying softly, easily. “I will see him.”

“Thank goodness. Valar – I never imagined…” he exhaled heavily. “Thank goodness. Thank goodness you’re here with us again.”

_… about ready to swim across the sea to take revenge on your behalf…_

Revenge. Revenge on…

No. Now was definitely too soon for that.

“Everyone is here?” he asked instead.

Tyelkormo nodded. “All seven of us and Father are at the house even now – Mother too. Findekano is visiting – “

“Findekano is?”

“He’s also Returned. They all are. And then there’s my lot, who you’ll meet for the first time, and Nerith.”

Celebrimbor had never met Nerith, Caranthir’s little spoken-of half-Sinda daughter who had crossed the sea after the War of Wrath with her mother. He was glad for the opportunity but zeroed in first on the words –

“Your ‘lot’?”

The young elf riding behind them chuckled. Tyelkormo looked back at him with a fond smile.

“Yes, as you can see I’ve spawned – Valar help us all. The two troublemakers you’ve met already and their sisters.”

_Sisters?_ Undoubtedly, Celebrimbor was making a face Narvi would have made fun of.

“Sinyarallë, my eldest, and Sivenarië, the baby of the group. She will reach her majority next year.”

Tyelkormo had _four_ children? Valar help them all indeed!

“… any more?” he asked, almost afraid to hear the answer.

His uncle laughed. “None from our side of the family, you’ll be relieved to hear. Nelyo, Kano and the twins are not for marriage – though my foolish cousin Findarato finally married his Vanya sweetheart and has a son, and Ataresto’s brat has two daughters with her mate. I heard across the sea Artanis had also had a child, was that true?”

If it was, it would have been after Celebrimbor’s death, for he had known of no such child and that thought made him sad for a moment, thinking of how he’d treated their parents. Their mother, who had one of the Three.

_Not the time_ , he told himself again _. Not the time._

Clearly sensing what was in his nephew’s head, Tyelkormo quickly changed the subject.

“And… I suppose I should tell you now – Nolofinwe’s daughter has also had more children.”

Celebrimbor’s eyebrows raised. “More – ?”

Sirondo chuckled again and his father nodded with a certain tightness around his mouth. “A daughter, a pair of tiresome twin boys, and then another daughter…”

“You mean you – !?”

“Irisse Nolofinwiel is the mother of myself and my siblings,” laughed Sirondo.

Celebrimbor’s jaw dropped. “Irisse?” he repeated. “It was allowed that…?”

“It was allowed,” Tyelkormo confirmed. “Though as you can imagine certain individuals were very smug about it. ‘Oh, so you’re all right with second marriages now, is that so?’ As if it had been an outright murder that dissolved my grandparents’ bond, but let’s not go into that for now – the Dark Elf, at least, has not passed through Mandos’ halls, nor does it seem he will.”

“But Grandfather is…” Celebrimbor trailed off, leaving the rest implied.

“He was not entirely supportive, at first,” Tyelkormo admitted. “Though for my sake he at least did not protest it. Father’s bitterness may have been a little soothed by his time with Namo, but he is still Feanaro Curufinwe.”

“You’ve met my mother though, I think,” the young elf cut in. “Grandfather’s disapproval would not scare the likes of her!”

Tyelkormo chuckled. “No, indeed. And father has slowly but surely come around. He’s more at odds with Arafinwe’s lot than Nolofinwe’s these days. With the latter I’ve even heard tell he’s been known to have a civil conversation once or twice.” He chuckled again. “Or maybe it was just the once.”

Well, it would have been silly to expect the whole family to be living in perfect love and harmony with each other, Celebrimbor thought with a small smile. It wouldn’t have seemed like his family at all if they had been.

But Sirondo’s mention of ‘mother’ lingered in his mind.

“And… my own mother?” he asked.

His uncle averted his eyes. “We don’t see much of her,” he admitted. By ‘much’ Celebrimbor guessed he meant ‘anything’. _It is right that a son should remain with his father_. “But I know where she may be found. I am sure you will see her soon.”

That reunion… that could wait though, Celebrimbor thought. One thing at a time.

First he had to see his father again. And he was filled, he found, with far more longing than apprehension for that meeting. He loved his father, despite everything, and his father loved him. They had been apart too long.

Such a long, lonely time…

He looked out at the horizon as the horses turned around the corner of the tree line, and there was Formenos, towers glowing in the afternoon sun. Real and unreal at the same time, it had been so long since he had been back at the home of his childhood. He felt nostalgia, not only for this place but for the homes that had seemed far more real to him across the sea, and sad for their destructions at the whims of monsters. Unlike Celebrimbor himself, Arda would never see their like again.

_But these things too, live on in your heart and memory, perhaps_ , a familiar voice inside his head reminded him.

He thought of Narvi and glanced at his uncle, wondering if he or Curufinwe or anyone else in the family knew that he had…

“Ah,” said Tyelkormo, and Celebrimbor looked away from the horizon, back to the house, and the rider who was approaching on the horse the other twin had ridden away on.

They were still a fair distance off, but Celebrimbor knew it was his father. For a while that more solid state of time the living enjoyed flickered out and everything was happening at once and not at all again, like in the Halls, until Tyelkormo was easing him out of the saddle from a horse that had stopped before Celebrimbor had realised it – and into the arms of the stumbling, hysterical elf staggering across the grass towards him.

“Tyelpe… Tyelpe… Tyelpe…”

Curufinwe sobbed as he clung onto him and Celebrimbor managed to make his arms work to do the same, only softer, because any worry that the old resentments might have surfaced was banished by the pity he felt for his father’s pain.

_Poor old Atto_ , he thought. _I never realised how lost he must have been until now._

*~*~*~*

Elbereth, what an unbridled joy was had that night; the house of Feanor finally complete once more.

When Curufinwe finally let Celebrimbor’s head come up from where he’d been clutching it to his chest a large, familiar crowd had gathered a short distance away, almost overwhelming him with feelings of disbelief, nostalgia and elation.

Feanaro came forward first, as was to be expected from him – and for the best perhaps, since he’d lost none of his intimidating nature in rebirth, and this way Celebrimbor moved past that all the quicker. His paternal grandfather clasped both Celebrimbor and Curufinwe to himself, patting the shoulder of his son while muttering in Celebrimbor’s ear –

“I’m sorry, Tyelpe. I’m sorry.”

Then Tyelkormo knelt down next to Curufinwe to whisper a few words of comfort and Curufinwe was so overcome his hands came up to his face and let Celebrimbor go. Feanaro continued to tend to him and he nodded for Celebrimbor to greet the others.

Carnistir came next, with a firm embrace and gruff, “Glad to see you back. Your father will hopefully be less unbearable now.” to which Celebrimbor could only think as far as smiling as he said his uncle’s name in reply, before the twins – Amburussa, that is, since for their sins there were now two sets in this branch of the family – raced up and hugged him together, crying out his old nickname.

And he saw Maitimo, hale and unblemished, who embraced him without words – only with eyes that promised they would speak later. Findekano was with him, and clasped his shoulder with a grin and a “Well met, little cousin,” and hanging back a little from them was Makalaure, who Tyelkormo had said was the last to return and still had a fragile look about him, though his eyes seemed hopeful.

At his side was his mother, Celebrimbor’s grandmother, who Celebrimbor almost didn’t recognise at first; the memory of her was so distant. This time, seeing Tyelkormo and Feanaro helping his father to his feet out of the corner of his eye, he approached them, and embraced and kissed each one in turn.

And hanging back, over Nerdanel’s shoulder, he saw a dark-haired lady in white who was also no stranger to him, and at either side of her a young maiden with silver-blonde hair. The taller of these two, who he judged the elder, was an inch or two taller than Irisse, dressed in pale pink with gold trim and with a frowning look that suggested to Celebrimbor that this was very much Tyelko’s daughter clinging on her mother’s arm.

The younger of the two, in sunny yellow, was more fresh-faced and excited in bearing, and beamed when Celebrimbor met her eyes. But before he could meet these cousins for the first time he heard his father choke out –

“Tyelpe… Telperinquar, I…”

So he turned back to him, smiling.

“It’s all right, Atto,” he assured him. “It’s all right.”

… and then his arms were filled with his sobbing father again.

It was dark before he got to meet Sinyarallë and her sister, Sivenarië – and to meet with their mother once again. Feanaro had an impromptu feast thrown together and the whole family gathered to dine and drink in the old hall, while Amburussa bombarded Celebrimbor with news on the state of their family and the nation.

Arafinwe ruled in Tirion, he was informed, and Feanaro accepted this, but did not like it. Finwe himself had returned and lived not very far away – had been sent for and likely would arrive by tomorrow – but he did not see much of Indis, and little more of his children by her, for they all lived in Tirion except Nolofinwe, who dwelt in a remote and peaceful location between his brothers.

There was, as Celebrimbor had guessed, still something of a feud within Finwe’s house. More than half of Indis’ branch had forgiven but not forgotten the sins of Miriel’s, and while Findarato was personable as ever to everyone and Findekano and Irisse supported the Feanorions outright (in that they should be accepted now, not in their past actions), the others preferred not to come into contact with their cousins.

Nolofinwe abstained from this conflict, though Feanaro seemed to see his still talking and meeting with Arafinwe and his children as signs of ‘divided loyalties’. As said previously, rebirth had not made Celebrimbor’s grandfather an abruptly gracious person. Yet it was at least heartening to see Feanaro seemed more indignant at the idea that Nolofinwe’s loyalties were not his alone than vindicated by it.

Nor did the household receive very many Teleri or Vanyar visitors – nor, in the true spirit of Feanaro, did they much care to.

It was as he began to worry – despite multiple complaints from Makalaure that the twins should not be foisting all this on him mere hours after he had returned to life – that he would find this complicated situation difficult to find his place in after he had settled somewhat; he decided to step outside for some air. Curufinwe didn’t want him to go even that far, but Maitimo put a hand on his shoulder, and it seemed the sons of Feanaro still took enough direction from the eldest of them that Curufinwe relented, and only told Celebrimbor to hurry back.

Celebrimbor breathed a huge sigh of relief once he was out of earshot. _Poor Father_ , he thought again. He couldn’t imagine what he’d gone through all this time. Hearing what he had – and Celebrimbor hoped he’d heard as little of the detail as possible.

Although, he also thought there were certain things it would not be wise to hide, even if it felt easier, assuming his family did not know already.

It was Spring, and the night was cool. Celebrimbor had made his way out to the largest balcony that he remembered from his childhood, facing south and already occupied when he arrived

Sirondo had been back inside the dining hall, so it was Sirnallamo, the younger of Tyelko and Irisse’s twins, that stood at the stone railing, peering out into the distance. He didn’t seem to notice Celebrimbor approach, so Celebrimbor greeted him.

“A beautiful night, cousin.”

The other elf turned, a little startled, and said only, “Oh – um… yes. Yes it is.”

“Are we expecting anyone else to turn up?”

Celebrimbor nodded towards the horizon Sirnallamo had been transfixed by, where a line of lighter blue still lingered. Sirnallamo glanced out and then back, his cheeks turning red, mumbling – “Oh… no. No one else. At least not tonight.”

He sounded disappointed at that, and somehow more deeply so than Celebrimbor would have expected, so he asked him, “But… ?”

There was a pause, the younger elf looking outward for a third time, and lingering before at length he gave his answer.

“Well. Even our grandfather sought Mandos’ Halls eventually,” said Sirnallamo. “They say he wandered unhoused for most of the First Age and without a body to keep his thoughts together he forgot his quarrel with the Valar entirely yet still remembered his love for his children, and so he looked for them there.” He briefly looked at Celebrimbor. “But, my half-brother…”

_Half-brother?_ It took a moment for Celebrimbor to remember Maeglin Lomion.

Sirnallamo continued, “… it has been too long now, I fear, to think he might depart the east. Atto would say – never in Amme’s hearing, mind you – but Atto would say that his love for my Amme was not enough to entice him. Amme would probably say that too some days, only in sympathy rather than condemnation. I do fear she blames herself for everything that happened, but…” he paused. “Well. I’ve never met him – so how can I make judgement?”

He finished with a sigh, and Celebrimbor put his hand on his shoulder.

Briefly, there was something there, something like a tiny pull that caught his attention on that thought and made his focus linger on an image made of his imagination – a dark-haired, dark-clad figure, turned away from him in a blank hallway, holding… something… in his arms that Celebrimbor couldn’t see, but that figure drifted out of his mind again a moment later, like the subject itself did not want him to attend too closely. Like it preferred to be left alone, in peace.

“Have faith,” he said after a moment.

“Celebrimbor?”

His head turned at the sound of his name – spoken distortedly, the tongue that said it unused to Sindarin – to a figure he was surprised to see.

“Grandfather?”

Red hair pulled back into a loose ponytail, his father’s mother’s father cut a figure recognisable even to one whose memories were as distant as Celebrimbor’s were. Mahtan had clearly travelled to get to Formenos, he was windswept and still wearing a heavy outdoor cloak.

Seeing him again was as strange as anything and somehow stranger, since the sons of Feanor had avoided talking about him as much as they had spoken of their mother in the First Age, perhaps unsure how to feel about a grandfather who had denounced their father. Mahtan seemed, therefore, a more distant figure to Celebrimbor, and they clasped hands instead of embracing.

“Little Tyelpe,” the older elf murmured. “It is good to see you.”

“And you, great-grandfather,” said Celebrimbor with a smile. Even knowing how much time had gone by, it was also strange to see Mahtan here.

“Grandfather!” cried Sirnallamo. “However did you get here so fast? Weren’t you in…?”

“I had a rather illustrious lift,” said Mahtan, pulling the young elf close for a brief hug. “Lord Aulë brought me, as he too had business here.”

“Lord Aulë is here!?”

Mahtan nodded, and turned back to Celebrimbor, a mysterious smile on his face. “I think he was hoping to speak to you about a certain matter, Tyelpe. He’s waiting outside.”

Aulë? Here, and waiting to speak to… ? Surely that was not a regular occurrence for someone who had just returned! Celebrimbor was left speechless for a moment, looking from Mahtan to Sirnallamo as though either one might tell him what to do – or laugh, saying they had just been pulling his leg.

Sirnallamo looked as bewildered as him though, and asked, wide-eyed, “Should I go with you, cousin?”

But Mahtan replied before Celebrimbor could – “I think it’s best he sees for himself what my lord wishes to see him about. I don’t think it will take too long.”

_If I remember how to walk,_ thought Celebrimbor.

“He’s at the main gate,” Mahtan added, and patted him on the shoulder.

Celebrimbor read within the atmosphere that he’d better head toward the main gate – and more, that he ought not pay too much mind to letting the others within know where he was.

Hesitantly, he took a few steps away from the other two; Mahtan smiling, Sirnallamo trying to despite his clear confusion, and with a nod he set himself off for the gate, and the Vala who wished to see him.

He didn’t know what to think of it. Granted, he was barely able to get used to being in this form again, and everything was strange right now. So real after such a long time that had not seemed real at all. A quiet dream accompanying a long rest.

But he felt full of life now, if apprehensive. He made his way by a less-travelled route so as not to attract too much attention from a father he was afraid was going to be holding on to his sleeve for the next five hundred years to make sure nothing happened to him, and he smiled at that thought.

Aulë. Why would Aulë come to speak with him? It was true he was a smith, and the thought of getting back into the forge filled Celebrimbor with joy, but for Aulë himself to actually come and see him, this he couldn’t fathom.

Then he remembered – Aulë had once been the master of… that person. And Namo had apologised personally for the actions of his lesser ‘kinsman’, though unnecessarily in Celebrimbor’s opinion, so perhaps…

He hoped not. It would be better, he thought, for that not to be brought up so soon, when this day had been so happy so far, and happier still than he might have ever hoped for.

On the other hand, this was Aulë: the master of all Celebrimbor had dedicated his previous life to, and all he hoped for in this one too, so he hurried on, though his knees trembled a little every few steps in their newness.

As if by design he met no one on his way out to the gate, only saw servants and members of the household from a distance, yet they never seemed to notice him. The courtyard was empty when he stepped out into the cool night air, pausing to look up at the stars once again and feeling heartened by their presence.

At the gate was a tall person – taller than Celebrimbor by far – with broad shoulders covered in armour whose gleaming reflection seemed to hold the fire it had been forged in within it still, over a long coat of flat metal rings that moved of their own accord; each ring rolling along its row until it reached the edge of the coat where it dropped down into the next row and rolled back the other way. The rings that reached the bottom slid over the ‘hem’ onto the inside of the coat, and kept moving in this trail until they came back over onto the outside at the neck. Each ring looked like it was fashioned from a different alloy.

The coat might have mesmerised Celebrimbor, had the one wearing it not turned his head towards him. The sun-like glow of his eyes was more than distracting enough to tear Celebrimbor’s gaze away from the impossible garment, up to the face of the Vala smith, and the star-like crown in his black hair.

Celebrimbor dropped to one knee.

“My Lord.”

“Celebrimbor, Curufinion.” Aulë’s voice was deep, like the loudest of bells, and echoed as though the walls of the mountain had come with him. “It is good that you have returned,” he said.

Shaken enough by the appearance of such illustrious personage, Celebrimbor struggled to find words to make a fitting answer. Not wanting to keep Aulë himself waiting, he blurted out –

“Yes! Yes, my lord, I – I think so too.”

There was a pause for Celebrimbor to kick himself inside his head before Aulë responded.

“Rise up, Celebrimbor. There is no call for you to kneel in your own home.”

Celebrimbor did so.

Aulë paused again, and Celebrimbor wondered idly if it was as difficult for him to find words to speak with one so far beneath him in power. At length –

“My brethren and I are happy to see you return to where you belong once more. Much grief was caused by your fate, all those years ago – here and across the sea.”

Celebrimbor had seen the echo of the grief here, but it surprised him, even after his time spent recovering from his self-recrimination, that his kin in the east might have felt grieved for his sake too. However, he was more easily able to accept that they might be, now.

_You were dealt a cruel hand, son of Curufin, whatever mistakes you might have made. Your suffering was not earned, nor could it have been. Trust in that._

At the same time, not everything relating to Middle Earth had been resolved for him.

“Across the sea…” he began tentatively.

“The fight against the Shadow continues,” said Aulë simply. “We think it will for some time yet. Mairon was…”

He cut himself off. Something appeared in his face then, something fond, and sad, and full of regret. He hung his head, shaking it slightly, and Celebrimbor could see that it was not the time to speak of that. Of _him._

Instead…

“A boon has been granted to you, Curufinion,” said Aulë, solemnly.

Celebrimbor cocked his head. A boon? Nothing came to mind either to what he might have done to deserve that, or what that boon might have been. But Aulë now had the look of one who just couldn’t quite contain their grin, and, with sudden prescience, Celebrimbor began to feel a hope he thought he’d long-forgotten blooming in his chest.

“As you may know, there are those of us among the Valar who are sympathetic to the love of the children of Eru. And the children of me, as it turns out.”

The children of…

No.

Could it be possible… ?

Aulë held up his index finger, like he knew what Celebrimbor was almost daring to imagine possible and was trying to pre-empt the question – which, granted, was probably exactly what was happening.

“One day,” he said, with finality. “You have one day. Every year from now on – one day. No more, no less, this is the boon that has been granted.”

And then he stepped aside.

Behind him, on a nearby hill bathed in moonlight, there was the silhouette of a figure – short, and with long, flowing hair. 

Celebrimbor began to run, forgetting everything that was behind him, that this body was less than a day old and hadn’t been able to walk a few hours ago. He was running as quickly as he could, but it felt like a dream that would never let him get to what he was running towards, right until he was at the bottom of the hill and had to exert the new muscles in his leg to climb it.

The figure was facing away, towards Isil’s gentle crescent smile. He had a stiffness in his shoulders, awkward, nervous, and despite the excellent hearing of this person’s people, he hadn’t noticed the elf approach.

Or perhaps he had, and was just being stubborn.

Gathering his courage, and his trust that this was really happening, Celebrimbor halted an arm’s reach away.

“Narvi?”

The dwarf turned around with a fond sigh, exactly as he had been in his prime, strong and with eyes bright and full of affection.

Celebrimbor’s filled with tears in the same instant, and laughter bubbled over from his throat.

He never should have doubted for a moment.

*~*~*~*~*

_Beautiful._

_A perfect circle of radiant gold that seemed to capture the ferocity of the magma that had shaped it, even in its resting state. And when the lines and curves of the characters engraved upon it flared to life within the embrace of fire, oh – not a single living creature could deny it._

_Right up until the moment it melted back into the mountain’s depths._

_His Ring – his One – the vessel of his very soul, or part of it, yet as it burned the whole of him felt like it burned with it._

_How unfair – when even he, Cruel Sauron, had used his power to make sure Lomion had felt nothing all those years ago when the fire had taken him. Out of concern for himself and not for Lomion, for certain, but still he’d taken those steps. That agony was second to nothing in existence. An elf could never understand it – an elf, who could only burn in body. Nothing could._

_But he, creator of his own world and therefore surely greater than all but one, forced to feel those dreams crumble away to ash over, and over, and over…_

_And he had been so_ close _. How unfair. How inevitable._

_Then, as promised, after every fibre of every thread within him succumbed to those flames – then the darkness. The black pit, open-jawed, waiting for him._

_It was almost a relief._

_Or would have been, if not for the single, solitary remaining cord, that pulled him back towards his agony._

*~*~*~*

Mairon opened one eye in a white room.

It was not a room of substance, nor even did he have an eye of substance, but he was not in the same darkness that had been Melkor’s fate.

And he knew exactly why.

“You’re awake.”

Mairon turned his ‘head’, weakly and with great effort, effort he whimpered like a pathetic animal for. He was lying on a white bed, in a white room, feeling like he was made of a thousand ton weight, and by a white door was Lomion, in his stately black prince’s garment.

He couldn’t open his mouth. The heat of the lava had fused it together. So he sent the thought –

_Lomion._

The elf took a deep breath, trying to hide the apprehension Mairon knew he felt and took one step closer, leaning towards him slowly.

“How are you feeling?”

Mairon didn’t know how to answer that.

There was no longer anything he had the power to effect in the world, and so this presentation of himself had no limbs; a useless trunk, mangled and corrupted. He lay on the bed wrapped firmly in soft white bandages, which at this point were holding what was left of him together. In some places his innards were exposed, in others his bones.

How was he feeling?

He felt tired.

_… You saved me_ , he thought.

Lomion glanced away shyly, toward the door. “Well… of course I saved you. You’re my husband, after all, I have a duty to you. Even if you are the Enemy.”

Such dissonance, even now. But then, Lomion’s ability to hold on to memories was suspect at this point. Perhaps he had forgotten entirely, that little incident with Celebrimbor, all those years…

No. No, Lomion remembered that. He knew.

_Lomion… I…_

“You shouldn’t try to speak,” Lomion told him. “You’re very weak. Don’t worry, I’m going to look after you, but you should rest and try to recover your strength.”

He looked at the door again.

“It’s not so bad here. Even though you won’t be able to leave. I shall have to see what my uncle says about your being held here, but I know he would have you treated fairly.” He made an effort to sound brighter – “I am expecting to hear from him any day now.”

Mairon cursed every power that existed in his mind.

_No, Lomion. He can’t. He doesn’t know –_

Then he stopped, because what was the point of trying to convince Lomion to cross the sea now? To ask the Valar to break their bond? To heal him from this miserable, wretched state no ‘rest’ nor anything else that could be found in this place could do the slightest bit to ease?

He didn’t want them to see him like this.

“If he doesn’t know now, I’m sure he’ll learn soon enough,” said Lomion confidently. He turned towards the door, reaching for the handle. “Until then, you have my word as regent that I will keep you safe from those who would try to hurt you here.”

There was no creak from the door, as it opened. The light from the corridor beyond slid across the wall, and the bed that Mairon lay on.

“From here on in, it will be just the two of us, I promise.”

As Lomion closed the door to the white room behind him, Mairon could hear Eöl laughing somewhere in the distance.

No tears fell from his eyes. He no longer existed as a thing of substance. He had no eyes to cry from.

*~*~*~*

“Do you think it will be all right, Tithellon?”

“Hmm?”

Bunny joined Lomion as he walked away from Mairon’s room toward his workshop. Tiresome as it was to have to reassure his worrywart companion all the time, Lomion sighed and did so nonetheless.

“We’ll manage,” he told him. “Mairon cannot go anywhere in that condition and I’ve prepared the defences around him to the highest standard. No one can get in or out without my leave.”

“That’s good,” said Bunny.

“Plus… the sword is keeping watch.”

“That’s very good.”

They walked on a few more steps in silence. Then Lomion clicked his tongue.

“If you have something else to say then you should say it,” he told his rabbit plainly.

Bunny hemmed and hawed and put his paw up to his mouth.

“Do you think Turgon will send you a message today?”

They passed through the main gate, out onto a terrace. Lock after lock clicked into place behind him.

“ _King_ Turgon,” he reminded Bunny. “And it’s always possible.”

“Mm. I was just thinking…”

A long pause followed. Out in the city he could see the snake of golden blooms on the House of the Golden Flower. It had been a long time since those flowers had bloomed.

“You were thinking what?”

“I was just thinking, Tithellon, it’s very important that we have Mairon here, don’t you think? He makes ever such a lot of trouble outside. If we don’t hear from the king soon, then should _we_ try to send a message to _him_ , do you think?”

Lomion would have dismissed Bunny’s worries out of hand as usual, but out of the corner of his eye, he saw a ghost of a shadow trailing along the ground.

Above him there was a great, black bird. It looked like a corvid of some type, soaring across the grey, Autumn sky beneath the towers hanging from the clouds, but it was not one of his father’s magpies. Thus, it was no ‘omen’, and yet somehow it seemed like one.

“Perhaps you’re right,” said Lomion, and watched it fly into the distance.

*~*~*~*~*~*

“ **liars are not believed even when they speak the truth** ”

_– Aesop_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The idea of Celebrimbor and Narvi being allowed to meet each other for one day every year was shamelessly stolen from the Chinese folklore about the cowherd and the weaver girl. This was a legend I vaguely remembered reading in a book as a child, and only googled earlier today so I could give it credit. Interestingly, one part of the tale I hadn't remembered, was that the bridge the lovers meet on in the legend is made from a flock of magpies... which would be a bit odd in this fic, considering their connection to Eol.
> 
> I have a number of different head-canons for how the future of this fic's universe would go, none of which will probably be written, I'm afraid, but they range from Lomion's siblings getting tired of seeing their mum sad because of his absence and sneaking off across the sea to try and find him, to the stuck-in-a-sword crew getting brought back to life by weird science in the modern age and Mairon having to get a part-time job at McDonalds to support his husband. (that latter idea was also stolen, just so you know)
> 
> Anyway, that's all she wrote. My sincerest thanks to everyone who has left kudos, comments, or even just a hit on this story, and special thanks to Marlene for the fanart!


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